


In All Their Lives

by charmedtomeetyou



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmedtomeetyou/pseuds/charmedtomeetyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Captain Swan fics originally posted on tumblr (I'm charmingturkeysandwich on there). I figured I should share them here, too! Ratings vary from supa fluff to significantly smutty; concepts vary from canon to fully AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Could you please write a CS “Your roommate cheated on me and I just threw your laptop out the window thinking it was his” college AU?

**Consequences**

This is what he gets for ignoring the paperwork. 

But can he really be blamed? Who expects a lad of just 17 to realize the endless stacks of pamphlets and forms and packets sent by the university for the months following his acceptance actually might serve some purpose? He was too busy soaking up the last of London before permanently relocating to the States (Gods help him; he’d have to get used to hearing “soccer” and not punching out each sorry git who said it). He was going to miss all the intelligent, sophisticated lasses of the UK; he cringed to think of the Kardashian-obsessed, Starbucks-swilling girls he’d have to choose among come September.

So from January to July he’d just stacked up the endless string of envelopes and boxes from Storybrooke University, living in a bubble of denial that he  _wasn’t_  uprooting himself from the only life he’d known come Fall (all for his brother; the arse better know what he was giving up for him).

This (admittedly quite childish) practice led to Killian Jones missing many important documents - loan forms, class schedules, dining plans - but nothing so important to his upcoming everyday life as the roommate preference form he adamantly ignored until long after its deadline.

And this -  _this_  is his punishment: bunking with the sorriest fucking wanker from sea to shining sea, the absolute imbecile who has made the inexplicable decision to cheat on the fieriest, most beautiful lass he’s ever seen. 

He met Emma Swan on a Friday, the last day of their first full weekend of classes. She’d been dating Walsh (the  _wanker_ ) since she was 16 and had decided on going to college with him so they could stay together after high school. She was sprawled out on Walsh’s bed, feet in the air with a book propped against her thighs, when Killian first met her. 

“Um, can I help you, love?” He asked as he threw down his backpack, startled by her presence (especially since his  _monkey_  roommate was nowhere to be found).

“Not your love,” she replied without looking up from her book. 

Nearly all of that first semester she steadfastly ignored him when they were in the same room, settling for curt replies and sarcastic comments to any direct communication he tried to make. But based on her contributions to classes, to student government, and her performance on the lacrosse field, Swan was a force to be reckoned with. 

Which is why this particular scene is unsurprising at best. 

Killian and Walsh aren’t exactly mates, so he isn’t privy to any of the sordid details of his affair - in fact he only knows that he’d  _had_  one based on Swan’s screaming (which can be heard all the way down to Greek row a block from campus housing). 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Walsh!”  _Crash_. “You couldn’t keep it your goddamn pants for two hours at my game?”  _Thunk_. “And for Christ’s sake, you couldn’t find a better place for her to suck you off than under the bleachers?!”  _Bang_. “We could  _see_  you from the field!”

Killian is getting closer to the building and can now see that the sounds are Walsh’s things being thrown from their third story window onto the brick walkway below. 

“Oh, come  _on_ , Emma. You had to see this coming. I mean, yeah, I actually kind of liked you, but did you really think I was going to settle for the first sad orphan who fucked me?”

“Get. The fuck. OUT!”

“It’s my room, psycho!”

“See if I fucking care. Just LEAVE.”

“On second thought, gladly. Zelena’s probably ready for round 2 anyway.” The door slams and Walsh’s footsteps are loud on the stairwell as he thunders down, brushing past Killian without a glance. 

A loud shriek rips from the first room at the top of the stairs (his), and he imagines he’d better get to his room to supervise the destruction before the hurricane of a woman makes landfall on his side of the room. 

But he’s too late. Just as he enters the dorm, tension-diffusing quip ready on his tongue, a MacBook Air with the Captain Hook decal is leaving her white-knuckled grip and sailing out the window.

“SWAN!” Killian sprints to the window, as if watching  _his_  laptop crash to the ground is going to have any effect on the extent of the damages. 

“Jones,” she bites out. “Should have known you’d come to your cheating buddy’s rescue. Well he is an  _ass_  who humiliated me and the guy I knew and loved before he moved in with  _you_  never would have done this to me.“ 

It’s the most the woman has ever spoken to him, but she’s showing no signs of slowing her verbal assault.

"He told me all about you and the girls you lure in with your accent and charms, how you stole those test answers at midterms, how you got into drugs as soon as you moved over here and sold them out of your room. And I just kept telling him to request a new roommate and to stay the hell away from you but I guess you charmed him into being an asshole, too. Well congratu-fucking-lations, you’ve got yourself a new protégé.”

His face has turned deep eggplant purple as she enumerates the (false) offenses against him, unsure of how to respond without adding to the overall destruction of his belongings himself. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, not capable of composing himself while faced with her furious (but still gorgeous) features. 

“Lass, you seem to be under a misapprehension. First of all, I have neither  done nor sold drugs. Second, the only thing I’ve ever cheated on was Super Mario for Nintendo. Third, I haven’t enjoyed the intimate company of a lass since before I left the U.K. And most importantly that was  _my_ fucking laptop you just threw out the window, not your bloody prick of a boyfriend’s, who, by the way, was and is  _in no way_  my mate. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to my insurance company to make about the £1,200 computer you just destroyed.”

He opens his eyes to see her fury finally cracked, fat tears spilling from her shocked and chagrined eyes. 

“Noooo,” she gasps, reaching for him but he flinches back. He can hear the crowd still gathered below his window and knows he needs to go retrieve his machine before it’s pillaged by bloody pirates (well, frat boys). 

“Emma, just wait here. I’ll be right back, OK? You can sit on my bed as long as you promise not to throw my pillows out the window,” he jokes, and Emma cracks a little smile. 

He runs down the stairs and out the door and  _thank the bloody stars_  his laptop landed in the grass on a pile of Walsh’s clothing. 

No damage. 

The same can’t be said for the lass in his room, though, so he shoos away the vultures still waiting for something juicier to occur and takes the stairs two at a time to get back to his room. 

But it’s empty, the only remnant of the broken-hearted princess being a message scrawled on a post-it note on Killian’s bed: “sorry killian just send me a bill." 

-

When Walsh returns to their room the next day, he is met with Killian’s ringed knuckles (and Walsh finally requests a room change over the phone while he ices his face).  

-

After Christmas break, Killian finds a Captain Hook Pez dispenser hanging off his door, Emma’s signature and phone number attached to it. 

He calls her immediately and she answers on the first ring. "How many dinners add up to the price of a laptop?” she asks.

“I don’t know, lass, at least a hundred. Probably more.”

They settle on  _more_.


	2. The Scientific Benefit of Shooting Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Emma and her son Henry meet a stranger during a meteor shower

**The Scientific Benefit of Shooting Stars**

Emma Swan’s alarm seemed exponentially more annoying this morning than any other.

Oh, right. Because it wasn’t  _morning_ , exactly. Why exactly was she getting out of bed at 2:30am?

“Mom, mom,  _mom_! Are you ready? Can we go?” Henry’s voice was dripping with excitement and wonder and happiness and it was just impossible to be cranky about the time when her son was so full of  _joy_.

Yeah, her morning shift at the sheriff station was going to be particularly caffeinated once true morning actually arrived – but it was worth it.

“Yeah, kid. Just let me grab a sweatshirt.”

Henry had been looking forward to the meteor shower for weeks – ever since Miss Blanchard had covered the astronomy section in her fourth grade summer camp. They learned all about the planets and distant suns and black holes and by the end of the first week of the unit, Emma had no fewer than four stargazing apps on her phone, each counting down to the best stargazing event of the year – the Perseid meteor shower.

The Swans were fairly new to the town of Storybrooke – they’d just moved there from Boston at the beginning of the year – but their apartment was near the top of the tallest hill for miles, so they didn’t have to go far to find the perfect vantage point. They’d stumbled on the exact best spot – a nice dirt pullover next to a tree-less field – on a walk one afternoon as the sun was setting, the unobstructed view of the pink-yellow-orange bursting sundown one of the most beautiful sights Emma had ever seen.

Emma wiped the sleep from her eyes and they shuffled out the door and into her yellow Bug, a stack of books in Henry’s backpack and a shining smile on his face. The roads were entirely empty –  _who the hell would be out at 2:35 on a weeknight anyway_  – but no sooner had the thought crossed Emma’s mind than she had to swallow it.

Their little secret spot had been  _commandeered_ , it seemed.

A shiny black motorcycle was perched squarely in the center of the dirt pullover, a leather jacket clad stranger leaning gingerly against it.

“Kid, I think we should probably find a different spot. We didn’t get here early enough, it seems.” She gestured down the road at the man and Henry’s face fell. He knew her stance on  _stranger danger_ , even though Storybrooke was admittedly much less perilous than Boston had been.

_Why were idiot men always ruining her son’s happiness_?

_And why was some drunk asshole sitting in their field anyway?_

They were just about to pass the crest of the hill when Henry practically jumped out of his seat. “But  _mom_  he’s got a telescope! He’s here for the meteor shower, too!”

“Henry, he could be a  _crazy_  person.”

“No crazier than  _we_  are.”

Henry had a point, and she really,  _really_  didn’t want to ruin his perfect night. Plus she was the goddamn sheriff. She was perfectly capable of handling the situation.

Henry cheered as she eased the car off the road, shifted it to park, and looked him in the eye. “Don’t talk to the guy, OK?”

And it only took two minutes for her over-eager, sweet, hopeful son to break her only rule. She hadn’t actually looked in the man’s direction before then, settling for brief glances out of the corner of her eye to make sure he wasn’t doing anything particularly sketchy. Nothing so far.

But Henry couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man’s telescope. They’d seen a few shooting stars already, but Henry wanted to see them  _closer_  and  _clearer_  and it was  _just too bad they didn’t have some kind of magnifying device_ (such a guilt-tripper).

“Aye, lad, would you like to take a closer look at the skies with my telescope?”

_Great, an accent. And holy_ hell _, that face…_

The kid didn’t hesitate, bounding toward the man without reservation. “Sure!”

Emma stepped in quickly, blocking Henry from the path to the (wildly attractive) stranger. “Thank you for the kind offer, but you’re not – we don’t actually know you. I wouldn’t feel right.”

He stepped backward and bowed his head, reaching his right arm behind his ear and scratching. “Of course. That would be bad form, indeed. Where are my manners? I shall introduce myself – Killian Jones, at your service. I teach science at Storybrooke High, actually. I’m sure you could Google me fairly easily and see I’m being truthful.”

“ _You’re_  Mr. Jones?” Henry cried out. “Miss Blanchard told me about you. Mom, he knows _everything_.”

Seemed legitimate enough… or was that her sleep deprivation talking?

“Hi, Mr. Jones. I’m Emma Swan and this is my very excited son Henry. Provided you’re not some kind of serial killer, we’d very much appreciate you sharing your telescope.”

From there Henry started talking a mile a minute and Mr. Jones stepped into full teacher mode, instructing him how to use the telescope, showing him different constellations, regaling him with the tales of their origins. Emma stared at the pair of them in awe for fifteen minutes at least, wondering how a man that drop dead gorgeous could possibly be so kind and loving to her kid when he hadn’t even  _known_  them before that night (morning?).

The swelling in her heart at the sight of them was threatening to be just a little too warm and fuzzy – her instincts leading her a little too closely toward  _let’s grab dinner and a movie… for as long as we both shall live_  territory – so she walked back toward her Bug and leaned against the hood, staring up at the clear, active sky.

A giant one streaked across the middle of the sky so brightly she could have sworn it was going to land on Storybrooke.

“Lass, if you’re looking for a star to wish upon, I’d wager that one was your best bet.”

Emma rolled her eyes, not that the man could see her. “Well thank you for that very scientific advice, Mr. Jones.”

“Please, love, it’s Killian,” he called to her before turning back to Henry to answer questions about meteors vs. meteorites and dinosaur extinction and moon rocks.

Hours passed and Emma knew the sun was going to rise soon, that Henry needed to get more sleep, that she was going to have to figure out how  _not_ to fall asleep doing paperwork at the station later on, that they were going to have to part ways with their brand new telescope-sharing _friend_.

Emma lay back on the hood of the Bug again, reasoning with herself that she’d wait for just  _one more_  shooting star before being the party pooper and hauling her kid back to his bed. One more meteor and she could close the door on this very happy night.

Just then there was a streak to the North, a relatively thin one that flashed bright for just half a second before disappearing.

_Make a wish_.

“OK, kid. It’s time to get you back to bed. We’ve been out too long as it is.”

“My apologies, Swan, I feel like I’m to blame. I just don’t know when to stop talking is all. Your boy, he’s a quick learner. I got a bit carried away.”

“No, I appreciate it, Killian. He’s had a great time. Right, Henry?”

“Yes!” But the deep yawn following his eager agreement gave him away. It was definitely time to get home.

And yet, Emma didn’t want to go.

She muttered a good night (good morning?) to Killian and they shuffled off toward the Bug. She’d just thrown Henry’s backpack in the backseat and was making her way to the driver’s side of the car when she heard footsteps approaching.

“Uh, Swan –  _Emma_ , I – I hope I’m not too forward in asking if you and your boy would like to perhaps have another, um, stargazing session sometime soon?”

It was at this point Emma would usually run. Well, to be truthful, she would have  _already_  run the second her heart did that little flippity flop that told her she was in trouble. But no one had ever been so attentive of her son, had ever connected with him in such a way. And no one had ever been so damn respectful toward her about anything, but  _especially_ not when requesting what sounded suspiciously like a  _date_  (chaperoned by a 10 year-old, but  _still_ ).

“I, um,  _we_  would love to… Killian.”

They smiled at each other and he handed her his phone for her to enter her number, him promising to call at a reasonable hour when the sun was the only star visible in the sky. He was so cheesy.

But then again, so was she.

Just as they said their second round of goodbyes and moved toward their respective vehicles, Emma called back to him, a blush creeping up her cheeks before the words were even out.

“Oh, and Killian. Guess you were right about the  _wish_  thing.”


	3. Make Me (Follow Your Lead)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sort of "deleted scene" where Emma asks Killian why he hasn't taken the next step with her (set during the six weeks of peace between Gold's banishment and the introduction of the Queens of Darkness).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely M rated.

**Make Me (Follow Your Lead)**

It was their seventh date.  _Seventh_. And that’s  _only_  counting quiet dinners and not monster chases and recon missions and grand balls 30 years in the past. Seven dates and her pirate boyfriend  _still_ hadn’t made a move.

Not that  _the guy_  always had to be the one to make the move. Not at all. But Emma had tried and Killian had refused (in the sweetest way possible, of course), so she was trying to just accept that for once they were moving on his terms rather than hers. She’d had the power most of the relationship – she’d been the one to lead and Killian had dutifully followed, but now she was doing the good girlfriend thing and letting this happen on his terms.

But  _his terms_  were leaving her immensely frustrated and having to (very quietly)  _relieve_  some tension herself under the steam of the showers she’d take before retiring to bed.

(Turns out there  _was_ a downside to finally finding the family you’d been wishing for your whole life. No  _privacy._ )

But on this night, walking hand-in-hand with her pirate down the shoreline, Emma had had enough of just  _following_. She wasn’t going to push – no, she wasn’t  _so_  desperate that she’d want to upset him (there was obviously a reason for his waiting). But she had to at least  _ask_.

They reached the point where the sand met the wooden docks, so Emma released Killian’s hand to retrieve her shoes (hanging from his hook) and to slip them back on her feet. Killian looked down at her and smiled –  _god that face could start wars_  – before leading her toward the bench they often shared to watch the boats, the waves, the stars.

He asked her if she’d liked her dinner, his fingers lazily combing through the ends of her flowing hair. He asked about Henry’s history project and when he’d be able to see the final product (Killian and Henry were equally fascinated in the pirates of  _this_  land). He ran his hand down her side, jerking away from her briefly after inadvertently brushing the very edge of her breast, but he continued on like normal, asking something entirely innocent about grocery shopping or car repair or Granny’s famous lasagna – only Emma wasn’t really listening anymore.

“Why won’t you touch me?” She demanded, sliding her body so she was facing him, her eyes boring into his.

“I am touching you.” He responded with a light smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, moving his fingers to graze over her hip as if to prove his point.

“You know what I mean, Killian.” Emma tilted her head to the side, slumping her shoulders and sinking ever so slightly away from him. How embarrassing was this? Having to practically beg your sexy, adorable, sweet, and so very  _experienced_  boyfriend to want you.

“Give it time, love.”

“If you don’t want me by now I doubt any more  _time_  is going to change anything.” Killian opened his mouth to respond to her, tossing his hand and hook in front of him animatedly (surely to counter that it wasn’t that he didn’t  _want_  her), but Emma cut him off. “Yes, fine, you  _do_  want me. But what is taking so long for you to do something about it? I know I joke a lot about your age and profession but  _seriously_  Killian. You were a womanizing  _pirate_  for 300 fucking years. I’m neither wondering  _nor asking_  how many women that adds up to, but I know for a  _fact_  you’re not exactly new at this. In  _my_  world, people usually take it to the bedroom after 3 or 5 dates, and  _that’s_ when you’ve just met the person! You traded your goddamn ship for me but won’t take off my pants?! What the hell is that about?”

Emma was breathless from her impromptu speech, a bit red in the face from lack of sufficient oxygen (and probably some embarrassment if she were being honest). Killian reached down and took her hand, lacing their fingers together with care and squeezing just a little too tight.

“Swan, please. I just want it to be… special.” He spoke so quietly the wind nearly drowned out his voice. But Emma still heard it.

“Special?” She asked, her voice softening and losing most of its fire. “Once again, I want to remind you I’m  _not_  asking and I  _don’t_  want to know, but just think back. You loved Milah more than anything in the world and it led to a decade-long relationship. How much of all that had  _anything_  to do with how it was your first time together?”

Hearing Emma say Milah’s name always made him jump a little, but his face quickly turned from stunned to thoughtful. “But that’s different, Emma. At first she was just a wench in a bar who wanted adventure. Aye, we fell in love, but that’s not how it began. With you – I already… I mean, I _care_  for you. I’ve never in my life taken a woman to bed for the first time when I actually had feelings for her. I don’t know how to do this, OK?”

Shame filled Emma’s eyes and heart and  _soul_. Captain Hook might be a lot of things, dashing rapscallion and experienced lover among them, but  _Killian_ , the gentleman, the Naval officer, the sweet, loving man she’d go to the end of the world for – he wasn’t as confident as the leather and swagger would suggest.

“Babe, there isn’t going to be some magically perfect moment that just falls in your lap. Especially not considering our  _circumstances_. I’m rarely spending time with you without my son, let alone in a place with any sort of comfortable surfaces. We kind of have to take advantage of what we can, don’t you think?”

“No! Absolutely not. You’re a bloody  _princess_. You’re actual royalty! I may have hated  _my_  King but I respect yours and silly as it may sound to you, I would like to treat you as such. And even if you weren’t royal, you’re perfect and wonderful and you’re  _my_  princess and you deserve better than me taking you against a bloody tree in the forest even if I want you so much I’ve nearly tried it several times!” Killian had stood up and was practically shouting at this point – if Smee were on his little tugboat moored just next to them, he’d be getting an earful.

Emma sat quietly, just fiddling with the circle of her necklace and letting him catch his breath before speaking. “I’m just me,” she said finally. “And you’re just you. And I want you. And I can see this is all some sort of  _good form_  thing, but you’re actually kind of upsetting me, making me feel like I’m not good enough. I know – I  _know_  that’s neither your intention nor what you actually think. But it’s what I  _feel_  and it sucks.”

His eyes went wide and his jaw went slack and he strode back to the bench with purpose. “Emma, _no_. You’re enough. You’re good – you’re  _too_  good.” He cupped her cheek with his hand and linked his hook around her elbow and forced her somewhat tear-filled eyes to lock with his. “You are beautiful.” He placed a kiss on her cheek. “You are smart.” A kiss on her forehead.

She pulled back for a moment to take in his expression, now brimming with genuine mirth.

“You are strong.” A kiss to the nose. “You are  _sweet_.” A kiss to the lips.

He tried to pull back but she wrapped her hand around his neck, pulling him back to her. She crashed her lips against his, nipping lightly and stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. He opened for her when she swiped her tongue lightly over his bottom lip and he moaned as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

She was winning, damnit. And it felt good.

The more enthusiasm she poured into the kiss, the more Killian was giving in return, his hand roaming all over her back, lingering at the strip of exposed skin between where her sweater ended and her dark jeans began. Emma was growing needy. Desperate to be closer to him, she lifted up off the bench and swung one leg over his lap, moving so she was straddling him on the bench. His hand and hook went immediately to her ass – the pirate knew where the treasure was, after all – and she started giggling into his mouth. Yep, definitely  _winning_.

He pulled back then, brushing her hair from her face. “You are kind.”  _Kiss._  “You are adorable.” _Kiss._

“Stop it, Killian!” More giggling.

“You are delicious.”  _Long kiss._  “You are ass-kicking.”  _Kiss_. “You are sexy.”  _Kiss._

“Hook! Stop!” Emma whined, rocking into him and burying her face in the crook of his neck.

“You are a bloody insatiable  _minx_.”  _Kiss._

Emma trailed kisses up his neck to his ear, licking against his pulse point on the way. “Stop,” she whispered in his ear, her lips brushing the shell before she bit down below his earring.

“Make me,” he responded, his voice low and inviting. That was a dare if she’d ever heard one.

_He’d better know what he was getting himself into, because this was as special as it was going to get_.

“Hold on tight,” Emma said with a glint in her eye, removing a hand from inside his jacket and lifting it in the air.

“Gods, love not  _here_  – ”

But suddenly the salty air and cool breeze were gone, replaced by a feeling of warmth and the wafting smell of coffee. Granny’s.

Guess the whole  _poofing in a cloud of smoke_  thing was easier when you had proper motivation, because the two of them were now perched just as they had been – Killian sitting up with Emma straddled over his lap – but instead of being on a bench at the docks they were on Killian’s bed at Granny’s.

“Love, you’re  _incredible_.” He stared at her with such  _pride_  she could just burst, but she was determined to keep them going the direction they had started.

Nudging against his chest, Emma guided Killian’s head to the pillow behind him, her body following him down so they were still chest-to-chest, but horizontal this time. “I thought I told you to stop that,” she whispered against his lips, grasping his hand with one of hers while her other trailed down to work the buttons of his vest.  _Why did he wear so many layers?_

“Sorry. It was the last one.  _For now_.” Emma bent her head to get a better look at his buttons and he took that opportunity to drag his nose down her cheek, goosebumps appearing on her skin in his wake. He lightly kissed her neck, opening to bite down when he reached her collarbone. She jumped slightly and he smirked and she thought finally he might just  _go with it_  and enjoy himself.

And  _enjoy it_  he did. When she finished the buttons of his vest, he pushed her forward so they were sitting up again, giving her the room to push his jacket off his shoulders and to remove the vest, tossing them into a pile on his otherwise spotless floor. She dove back in, tongue stroking desperately against his as he pushed her jacket off as well. She rocked her hips into his, grinding happily against the evidence of his arousal.

Killian grunted then and Emma laughed softly. “Bloody hell, Swan!”

Her fingers went back to unbuttoning the collared cerulean blue shirt he’d worn on her insistence (it was the hottest piece of clothing  _any_  guy could wear, but the way it matched his beautiful eyes made it exponentially hotter on  _him_ ). She leaned down to press kisses to each new piece of exposed skin, her hands pausing to draw circles over his chest and tweak his nipples on the way down.

Killian was groaning and panting and Emma was feeling all too proud of herself, which apparently caused Killian to retort by trailing his hand and hook up her back, latching onto the top of her sweater with his hook and swiftly pulling downward, exposing her entire back all at once in one long  _rrrrrip_.

She should have been angry – she  _liked_  that sweater – but in truth all his shirt-destruction did was increase the throbbing between her legs by an embarrassing amount. “Killian,” she whined halfheartedly, splaying both her palms out over the muscles of his now fully exposed abdomen.

Emma finally wrenched her lips back from his body to rid herself of the ruined shirt, reaching up afterward to help Killian out of his.

Of course there was a fire lit under his ass  _now_  – it only took almost 2 years and 7 actual dates – but she reached up to stop him from pulling the shirt off himself. “Hey, now! You be careful with this shirt. I’ll be needing it to get home since you  _ruined_  mine.”

Once his shirt was off and tossed in the pile with the rest, he just sat  _staring_ , lightly touching Emma everywhere with his hand and the blunt side of his hook. She tried to lean back in to capture his lips once again, but he just wanted to  _revel_  and it was making her feel both cherished and embarrassed. Such simple, light, almost  _innocent_  touches should not have been driving her crazy but it absolutely  _was_  – making her flimsy underwear even wetter than they already were.

Killian finally leaned back toward her, kissing her soundly on the mouth before moving lower to press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, chest, and eventually the swells of her breasts. The throbbing at her clit was becoming nearly unbearable and she needed,  _needed_  him to touch her more before she spontaneously combuste. So she removed her hands from around his back and twisted them behind her own, unclasping her bra and flinging it across the room in two swift motions.

Picking up on the hint, Killian continued trailing his kisses lower until his lips were brushing across her already painfully tight nipples. She rocked into him, grasping at his skin, leaving little red lines where her fingernails scratched over him. He licked the underside of one breast as he brought his hook up to play with the other and Emma lost all semblance of coherent thought. Killian finally sucked her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as his hand started drifting lower.

“Holy  _shit_  that feels good, Killian,” Emma moaned as he switched his efforts to her other breast, sucking it in even harder. He chuckled, of course, because the pirate  _knew_  he knew what he was doing. His hand was lingering at the back of her jeans, dipping just barely below the waistband to the heated skin of her hips, when Emma grew decidedly too impatient. With his tongue still laving at her breasts, she reached down and undid the button and zipper on her pants and dragged his hand to where her underwear were now exposed.

He leaned back again to watch her, to take in her needy, desperate expression, her flushed cheeks, her wild hair. And he kept his eyes fixed on her as he dipped his fingers lower, dragging across her clit and swirling a few times before sliding a finger inside. He was too much and not nearly enough all at once and Emma cried out and she  _knew_  Granny and Ruby could hear her – wolf’s hearing and all – but she honestly did not give a fuck at the moment. He tried to pump a little harder, add another finger, but the unforgiving fabric of the jeans was making it difficult to do very much.

“The clothes of this realm never fail to confound me. These trousers are much too constricting,” he said between kisses against her neck.

“So take them  _off_  then,” she grunted, rolling her eyes at his obvious pride for making her so needy.

His eyes flashed for just a second before he grasped his forearms under her hips and flipped them over, his hook and hand gripping the sides of her waistband and yanking down  _hard_  as soon as she was flat on her back. She lifted her hips so the jeans would come off more easily, spreading her legs apart once he’d thrown them off the bed. He was just about to drag her underwear aside with his hook when he muttered something about a  _better idea_  and instead he ripped them clean off, tossing the three different pieces into the trash can to his right.

Emma was on fire and he, once again, took a moment to just stare and she was very close to actually begging when he finally lowered himself back down to her, placing a kiss on her mouth before crawling down so his face was settled between her legs. Emma gasped, surprised by his obvious intentions, but not exactly about to stop him. Looking up at her, he smiled once before licking a stripe up her center, sending a billion different bursts to a billion different nerve endings. Her moaning must have encouraged him because he dove in fully, alternating between swirling around her clit and lapping at her with the flat of his tongue. He reached his hooked hand up to her hips to hold her in place while he started dipping inside of her, first with his tongue and then with his fingers. She ran her hands through his hair and grasped as his neck, unwilling to stop touching him even though there wasn’t much she could do.

He sucked her clit into his mouth and nibbled lightly with his teeth, pumping in and out of her furiously and suddenly she was coming undone – legs shaking, back arching, a high-pitched moan escaping her lips despite her concerted effort to stay quiet. He stroked her through her orgasm gently with his fingers, while she pulled his face back to hers, kissing him enthusiastically and not giving a shit that she could taste herself on his tongue.

She hadn’t even caught her breath yet before she was popping open the button on  _his_  jeans, wrenching down the zipper and tugging his pants down to his thighs. He gasped and tried to pull back, but Emma kept her mouth on his, begging him without words. She grasped him lightly, stroking the velvety skin and swirling her thumb around the head. Without warning she pushed him up, locking her leg around his hip to flip them so she was on top.

The stunned look on his face was far too cute for this much dirtier-than-cute moment. “I should mark this down in some kind of record book,” Emma said, pulling his pants the rest of the way down his legs. “I don’t think you’ve ever been quiet this long in the entire time I’ve known you.”

“Are you not enjoying the more pleasurable uses of my mouth, Swan? I could go back to talking, after all,” he said, bringing his hand and hook to her hips as she climbed back up to straddle him, both of them now bare. “I could just sit right here and tell you all the things I want to do to you and not let you touch me. I could just watch you flush and moan and drip onto my lap and not even touch you at all.”

But his straining, painfully hard erection made it clear his words were more than empty. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, removing her hand from his length so she could drag her center over him, coating him with her wetness.

He groaned loudly – yep, Ruby was going to give her some inappropriate looks in the morning – and then pulled her body closer to him so he could hold her close and suck at her pulse. She rocked against him and he moaned again (even louder), starting to murmur, “Emma, please.”

If it were anyone else, if it were anything but the important moment it was, Emma would have teased him. She would have played with him a little more, worked him up, made him wait. But they’d waited long enough and this whole thing – hot as it all was – was so much more than just _sex_. She knew how she felt about him, knew why she wanted him inside her so badly. And it wasn’t because he was so fucking hot she couldn’t breathe sometimes (though that was certainly a factor).

It was far more about a certain feeling that people sometimes had toward each other that may or may not begin with the letter L. Yeah, she’d noticed earlier at the bench when Killian had almost slipped and used the term, but he’d caught himself so as not to scare her off. And she avoided the term even in her head so as not to scare  _herself_  off. But the plain truth of tonight is that it wasn’t about being horny. She would never,  _ever_  feel about another man the way she felt about him. She _needed_  him. She needed him in many non-sexual ways every single second of her life. In  _this_ moment it was sexual – but in a different way than she’d ever really experienced. She needed him to feel whole, not just to fuck.

(But she wouldn’t tell him that yet.)

(Though she suspected he already knew.)  

“Please, love, I – ”

Emma brushed a piece of his unruly hair from across his forehead and then sank down on him, letting him enter her slowly,  _slowly_  until he was fully seated and she could adjust. It felt  _amazing_ and she wasn’t even moving yet, and the look on his face seemed to suggest he was feeling similar. So she leaned forward, brushing her fingers up his torso and over to his arms before bracing her hands on either side of his head and starting to ride him. They started slow, just a gentle rocking as he caressed her hips, her breasts, her ass. The chill of his hook made her jump when he used it to pull her hips closer to his, sending himself deeper inside her.

At that she picked up the pace and he started trailing kisses down her neck and over to her shoulder. He was meeting her thrust for thrust when she started whimpering a little louder, on the cusp of another orgasm. Obviously determined to meet her needs before his own, he bent a little lower to suck her nipple into his mouth as his hook moved to her clit, placing just enough pressure to make her shatter.

As soon as she was coming, he flipped them over, hiking her leg so her knee was at her chest. He kept his eyes on hers as she rode out her own waves of pleasure, desperately seeking his own. She had never felt so naked in her entire life with him watching her like that, but there was nothing uncomfortable about it. Like every facet of their lives together, this was perfect. They complemented one another, completed one another. How he ever thought they needed anything but each other for it to be  _special_  was beyond her.

She reached and curled her fingers around his neck, dragging his lips back to hers as he pounded into her, Emma swallowing his moans as he finally spilled himself inside her (thank god for birth control – she’d already explained that kind of magic to him a few weeks before).

He tried to collapse off of her to keep from crushing her with his body weight, but she wasn’t having it. Instead, she pulled him down so his face was resting on her chest, one of her hands stroking his arm while the other raked through his hair.

There was a certain sentence she  _really_  wanted to say, that she definitely  _felt_ , but she knew she’d never actually gather the courage, so she just hummed in approval as his breath slowly quieted. After a minute or so Killian nuzzled his face further into her chest, his ear resting just above Emma’s heart.

(Which was  _his_.)

She was tempted to doze off, but knew that she was expected back at home that night – Henry wasn’t with her as many days out of the week as he used to be ever since Regina’s loss of Robin and the commencement of Operation Mongoose – so she had to take advantage of the days they had.

“Hey, Killian?”

“Aye, love?” He kissed her shoulder.

“I need to get home. It’s one of my nights with Henry.”

He leapt up, looking thoroughly horrified. “Then why did you agree to a date tonight? Emma, I would never have asked or kept you out or – ”

She tried not to laugh at his naked panicking. “Will you calm down? He and my dad were out having some man time, sword fighting and learning to horseback ride. They’re probably just getting home now.” Finally sliding off the bed to stand, Emma walked to face him, letting her fingers dance up his chest until they curled around the back of his neck. “And I take offense to your accusation that dating you has turned me into a bad mom.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her so that there was no space left between them. “I’m sorry, love. I just want the lad to like me. And he won’t if he thinks I’m stealing away the mother he only just recently found.”

“Henry likes you. No, Henry  _loves_  you. He loved you when you were just some weird guy I was ‘helping with a case.’ Now that you’re back to being the fearsome Captain Hook  _and_  his mom’s boyfriend  _and_  the guy who still takes him to steal boats… well let’s just say I think his Grandpa was starting to get jealous about how often he was bragging about his antics with  _you_  and that’s what led to this evening’s jousting adventures.”

“Do you truly mean that, Emma?”

“Of course, you idiot!” She pushed back from him and started gathering her clothes – though based on his overenthusiasm with his hook, she was left going commando and wearing  _his_  shirt rather than her own. “Yeah, this doesn’t at all look like I just got properly fucked by a guy with a sharp appendage and no respect for bargain outlet clothes,” she whined, looking at herself in his mirror and trying to make the outfit look more… intentional.

“As much as it drives my blood decidedly downward to see you wearing my things, love, can’t you just imagine a sweater from home and  _poof_  it into your hands here?” he suggested, opening a drawer to pull on his pajama pants.

“You’re a genius!” She jumped up and down once before gathering herself and imagining a cream-colored sweater she knew had been lying on her bedroom floor that morning.

And  _poof_! There it was. She switched out Killian’s shirt for hers and slipped her leather jacket back on over it, walking reluctantly back into Killian’s open arms. He’d finally made love to her, but she was still going to sleep alone tonight – and that upset her more than it should.

But she laughed it off. “So was it  _special_  enough for you, Captain?”

“I’m so sorry that I was so worried, Swan. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t enough when I was worrying the same about myself.”

“Well I think we’ve proven that we make a pretty good team in more ways than one, don’t you think?”

“Aye, that we do.” He kissed her lips one more time before walking her to his door, only deciding against walking her the whole way to the loft when Emma reminded him that he should probably avoid Granny and Ruby’s stares for a while.

And so she left, with a stupid happy smile on her face that hadn’t diminished even a little by the time she entered the loft. Her dad was showering and Henry was reading a book, so Mary Margaret alone greeted her at the door.

“Well somebody looks awfully chipper tonight!”

“Yeah, we had a really good dinner,” Emma said, her eyes focused to the floor.

“Mmhmm. It looks like you might have burned yourself on that  _dinner_  or perhaps it bit you?” Mary Margaret pointed at what was certainly a few love bites on Emma’s neck.

Yep, there were definitely downsides to living with your family.


	4. And If It's My Last Chance to Say It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Divergence where Emma doesn't become the Dark One after they return from the AU. She is always on the brink of saying "I love you" to Killian and keeps getting interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely M rated.

**And If It’s My Last Chance to Say It**

_He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive._

Emma could hardly contain her joy. Scratch that – Emma  _couldn’t_  contain her joy, bounding up the stairs two at a time and launching herself into his arms as he stood at the foot of her bed. The force of it toppled him over with an  _oomph_  from Killian and a series of manic giggles from Emma, and after a few moments of lying sprawled on top of him, she crawled up his body, straddling his hips and taking his hand and hook in her fingers.

He was  _alive_  and she loved him so much it  _hurt_  and she could finally,  _finally_  tell him and see that look in his eyes when he realized absolutely for certain that he made good on his promise from Neverland to win her heart without trickery.

“Look, I didn’t mean to cause any panic. I woke moments before your parents and came up here looking for your boy.” Despite his initial teasing when she’d thought he hadn’t returned from the alternate reality, he was now quite serious about it not being his intention to worry her. He was looking for her  _son_  because he loves her  _and_  he loves him and she loves him and  _ugh_  she just has to  _say_  it before she explodes.

“He’s fine. Henry’s fine – I’m just… glad you are too.”   _Glad_  was putting it lightly, but she was still nervous. Inexplicably nervous because anyone with eyes or ears could tell she loved him (probably). Saying it shouldn’t have to be such an ordeal.

“What is it?” His concern for her was adorable.

“When I – watched you die… I was afraid I was never going to get a chance to tell you something.”

“Tell me what.” It wasn’t a question. Because that cheeky bastard  _knew_  what she was going to say, didn’t he? Probably.  _Open book_  and all.

“That… I – ”

“Emma! Killian!  

_Of course._  Leave it to her parents to ruin the moment. Then again, it might be a matter of life and death (those were all too common in this sleepy little town, after all), so she probably shouldn’t be so annoyed.

She kept her eyes on Killian and his face had fallen just slightly. Maybe it was enough for him to know that she, at the very least, had tried to tell him.

(At least she’d said it out loud to  _someone_  – Regina, of all people – but, hey, it had been  _said_  at least.)

Charming called up to Emma’s bedroom, not daring to actually come up the stairs probably for fear of seeing, well, exactly what he would see if he came up there. “We need to go get Isaac. He’s still out there somewhere, and – author or not – he could be dangerous. We’ll see you two at Granny’s later!”

Emma and Killian both called down with their okays and their goodbyes and Emma shifted closer in Killian’s lap as she caressed his stubble, using her thumb to pull his lips into a bit of a smile.

“Thank you. For sacrificing yourself. Henry and I wouldn’t have succeeded without you.

“Of course, love. It’s all in a day’s work for a hero.”

Her heart skipped at his calling himself a  _hero_  because he  _was_  and it took so long for him to realize it, took him becoming a coward to realize his bravery and  _god_  she just loved him.

And she could still say it, of course, but her own cowardly instincts kicked in and instead she just kissed him – surprisingly chastely considering just a few layers of fabric separated their pressed-together naughty bits. She suggested they clean themselves up and take a little nap before the inevitable festivities at Granny’s began.

* * *

Emma was more or less attached to Killian’s side from the minute they returned from being trapped in the other book. Not that Killian was complaining. The opposite, in fact. Finally,  _finally_  she wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t downplaying their relationship, was letting him comfort her and take care of her and was just letting him act the way he  _felt_.

Well, mostly. He still hadn’t had the chance to say those very specific words to her that he so desperately wanted to. Yes, he’d confessed the sentiment through various actions and phrases – can you really be someone’s happy ending if they  _didn’t_  love you? – but he figures the “L” word was a step that  _she_  needs to take and, like always, he’d wait patiently until she does.

Ands she tries.

She’d tried when she’d had him pinned to the bed earlier that afternoon.

And she tried again that night at Granny’s, her head leaned against his shoulder and his hand playing with the ends of her hair.

“I’m so happy, Killian,” she said with the sweetest, most unguarded smile on her face.

“As am I, love. Though I’m always happy when I’ve got such a lovely lass in my arms.” He quirked an eyebrow at her suggestively and she rolled her eyes but held him tighter.

“I lo – ”

“ _Mom!_ ”

Bloody hell, he loved the lad, but Henry’s timing was less than ideal if Killian was correct about what Emma was about to say (of course he was).

Emma’s head drooped further onto Killian’s chest (in defeat?) before snapping back up to meet Henry’s excited gaze. “What’s up, kid?”

“Can I stay with Grandma tonight?”

Emma and Killian looked at each other with the same deep confusion in their eyes.

“Henry, we live with your grandma?” she stated/asked.

“No! Grandma Belle. Grandpa Gold is still healing from the darkness and I don’t want her to be alone. And she said we’d research more on authors and stuff now that I am one!”

Killian somewhat envied Henry’s ability to welcome all the crazy branches of his family into his heart so easily. Of course, that led to him to remember that his other grandmother was, in fact, his Milah. And, oh, how Henry would have loved her – her adventurous spirit, her bravery. Killian would have to tell him more about her someday, and maybe he’d commit her tale to the pages of a book where she belonged.

As Henry bounced out of the diner, Emma looked back up at Killian like she knew exactly what he was thinking – and, even better, like she  _agreed_.

God, he loved her.

* * *

It was getting ridiculous. She was honestly contemplating asking Regina if there could be some weird annoying  _curse_  on her or something because every single fucking time she tried to tell her boyfriend she loved him, something obnoxious happened.

She tried one evening in the Sheriff station only to be interrupted by the ringing phone (the dwarves were drunk and brawling at the Rabbit Hole).

She tried while walking down the street after dinner and another dark fairy who’d escaped from the sorcerer’s hat went zooming by, apparently after Jefferson for information on  _his_  hat.

She even tried to say it over the phone – how  _tacky_ , right? – but just as she got out the “I,” her fucking battery died. It had been at 55% when she made the call.  _What the hell kind of curse was this?_

Bad things had always happened when she told people she loved them. So she avoided it. But one day she realized a funny thing: at least in recent history, it took the  _bad stuff_  starting for Emma to even make the confession. Of  _course_  Neal fell through a portal to his (presumed) death after she said she loved him – he was already halfway  _into_  the portal by the time she said it. Same with Henry – she waited until he was 99% dead before she uttered the words. So she didn’t want to make the same mistake with Killian. She was going to tell him and nothing bad was going to happen.

Except the weirdest bad/annoying/ridiculous things just kept interrupting her so much that she just _stopped trying_.

He  _knew_. Everyone knew. So she was giving  _up_.

* * *

Life had been slow, simple, huge crisis-free for weeks now – but Killian’s heart was still in knots. Sure, there hadn’t been any tragedies or anything like that, but there were so many odd distractions that Killian started to think he might be cursed. Every time Emma tried to reveal her feelings, something bloody well silly would get in the way. One afternoon Killian went to visit the former Queen/current Mayor to see if there could be any possibility for magical interference – any way the author had enacted something that had somehow stuck from the alternate reality to theirs.

“Sorry, pirate, it looks like the two of you are victims of what they call  _shit luck_. No magical cure for a problem that isn’t  _magical_. Haven’t you thought of just telling her on your own? It’s not as if you don’t know she’d return your sentiment.”

After swearing the Queen to her silence, Killian headed back to Emma’s apartment, determined to just stop thinking about it and enjoy her company. They were just  _words_. Maybe the two of them were putting too much pressure on themselves and that was the problem.

No more pressure.

He’d just go to the loft, fire up the magical box and turn on Netflix. He did love the stories he got to not-so-magically watch unfold, but even more than that he just loved the excuse for holding Emma in her arms for hours on end.

* * *

There was something lighter about him when he entered the loft that afternoon. He gently banged on the door with his hook, entering even before she called out to him, sweeping over toward her and wrapping his arms around her firmly.

“Well hello there! Someone’s happy to see me.”

“Always, love. How does an afternoon of Netflix sound to you?”

“Perfect!”

She’d been worried that he was going to get frustrated with her, with life, with the little bumps that made even stretches of  _peace_  feel like a battle. But he was relaxed. He was happy. So she would be, too.

Though it was somewhat difficult to keep up the  _happy_  mood when the episode they’d reached on _Doctor Who_  was arguably the most painful episode of anything ever. Doomsday. And, yeah, it felt as dark as the title sounded.

Separated by worlds, the Doctor would never see his Rose again (Emma could relate with the whole  _worlds-apart_  thing. And  _damn_ , that hurt).

_“I love you,” Rose choked out, sobbing on the beach._

_“Quite right, too,” the Doctor responded, smiling. “And if it’s my last chance to say it, Rose Tyler, I – ”_

And then the transmission ceased and the Doctor never finished his sentence and Emma got a little teary and squeezed Killian’s forearm tighter and suddenly Killian was laughing hysterically into the back of her neck.

“Ha ha ha! Oh, god – it’s just… so appropriate, don’t you think, darling?” Killian could hardly breathe between the bursting chuckles. Emma turned in his arms, softly laughing with him (even his odd bursts of manic  _whatever this was_  were infectious).

“I now see why you like the Doctor so much, love. You seem to have the same timing problem as him.”

The same problem…  _oh my god_. That asshole really  _did_ know the whole time.

“You’ve  _known_  what I’ve been trying to say?”

“Of course, Swan, I might be 300 years old, but I’m not an idiot.”

“Then why didn’t  _you_  just say it?!”

He smiled that same teasing but contrite smile as when she’d found him in her room after they returned from the alternate reality. “It seemed like it was something you needed to do for yourself, love. But you know I do.”

Emma shifted, pushing him so he was lying down on the couch and her legs were on either side of his hips.

“Well you know I do, too. Obviously.”

She bent down and captured his lips with her own, slanting her mouth over his to deepen the kiss immediately. His arms went around her waist, his hook scraping at the back of her sweater as his hand stroked the exposed skin between her sweater and her jeans.

His lips were soft yet insistent, his tongue firm but causing her entire body to tingle. She dragged her fingers through his hair, trailing them down, down, over his stubble and through the coarse hair at his chest. Like usual, his first several buttons were already undone, but Emma worked down even further until his entire shirt was open. He gasped as she finally broke the kiss, leaning back to remove his shirt. It caught briefly on his hook, but she worked it over the brace and off, throwing it over her mother’s chair.

“Swan, what are you – ”

“Shhhh. I love you.”

With a flick of her wrist, Emma locked the front door and closed the blinds. She smiled down at Killian who still looked dumbstruck ( _fuckstruck_ , more like it) before crossing her arms over her abdomen and dragging her sweater over her head.

“I love  _you_ ,” he responded, reaching across himself to unlatch his hook (wouldn’t want to scratch her – such a  _gentleman_ ) before reaching reverently for her exposed skin.

Emma wanted to touch him,  _all_  of him, so she reached for the contraption around his left arm. “Is this OK?” she asked as she undid the buckles.

“Y-yes.”

When the brace was fully removed, she ran her hands down his arm, linking together their fingers on his good hand and softly tracing the scars of his stump.

“I love  _every part_  of you,” Emma said, bending down to kiss his ruined flesh.

At first he was stunned into silence, so much like the cowardly deckhand who didn’t realize he knew how to wield a sword.

But then the pirate came back. “I’ve got another attachment I think you’d prefer, love.”

She kissed her way up his arm, sucking at his pulse point (leaving a mark, too, cause he’s  _hers_ ) before moving to nuzzle his neck.

“Way to break the moment, Captain,” she whispered, her lips playing over the shell of his ear.

She ground down on him, causing him to moan way too loudly (hopefully no one was about to knock at the door – there was no doubting what those two had gotten up to now).

“Love,” he started, jerking his hips as she undid the button of his pants and let her fingers creep beneath the waistband. “As much as I’m enjoying this –  _oh_  god – are you sure?”

“Am I sure? I successfully told you I love you without something insane interrupting me. If we don’t do  _this_  now, we probably never will. We’re not ending up like the Doctor and Rose, right?” She laughed and grasped him more firmly, stroking him.

“Ohhh, Swan, you misunderstand me. I wasn’t asking –  _oh god you’re trying to kill me_  – if you were sure about  _this_  (he brushed his hand over her breast before reaching around to deftly unhook her bra as if it  _wasn’t_  the first time he was removing such an article). I was merely asking if you were sure the couch was the best place to do it.”

His fingers clutched at her side, pulling her down so her breasts were swinging in front of his face. He closed his mouth over one of her nipples, licking and sucking until she was panting and babbling incoherently. Her hands were moving to push his pants down his legs, but their position wouldn’t allow it, so he reluctantly released her, allowing her to stand (on shaky legs –  _damn_ his ability to reduce her to a needy mess in ten minutes flat).

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware she was in her parents’ living room, could hear the sounds of the Doctor and Donna Noble, knew this was entirely the wrong moment to be taking such a big step, making such a big decision. But at the  _front_  of her mind, all she saw was the man she loved, perhaps her  _true love_  though she wasn’t exactly asking for a sleeping curse just to prove it. And yeah, maybe some candles or soft music or a  _bed_  might make the moment more traditionally “romantic,” but there was nothing more perfect than the fact that she was with this man and she loved this man and she was going to  _show_  him in every way a person could do so.

Emma yanked her pants and underwear down all in one motion, kicking them away as Killian did the same, still lying down on the couch.

Once they were both bare, Emma climbed back up over him, her heart hammering far louder than she’d ever imagined possible. Of  _course_  she was sure she wanted to do this; of  _course_  she loved him, but she was still incredibly nervous. She’d had a lot of sex in her life – but it was mostly one-night stands or the desperate reach of a young girl to not feel so alone. This was  _real_.

And yeah, he’d had Milah whom he’d loved dearly, but since her death  _two hundred_ years before he’d also been a one-night kind of guy. So he looked eager and excited (obviously – his arousal was pushing hard against her thigh), but he looked nervous, too. Because this was  _important_.

She lowered herself down slowly until their noses were brushing together. “I love you, Killian.”

“Not as much as I love you, Emma.”

They kissed sweetly and she lined him up against her entrance, sinking down inch by agonizing inch as their mouths moved more insistently against one another. When he was fully seated they broke apart, Emma gasping for air as Killian moaned deeply. He felt amazing, incredible, more wonderful than she ever could have imagined – and she hadn’t even started  _moving_ yet.

“Bloody hell, love –  _oh_  darling, you’re perfect.”

Emma smiled – her lie detector told her he  _meant it_  – so she leaned down, kissed his neck and gently started rocking back and forth.

The drag of him was intoxicating and his gasps and moans spurned her on. She picked up the pace and he started meeting each of her thrusts, his fingers digging into her hip and his stump rubbing at her breast.

He bent forward to kiss her  _hard_  as she rode him, her muscles pleasantly burning as she started to shake.

But then he suddenly pulled back. “Emma, I’m – I’m going to – I don’t want to risk getting you – ”

She tried not to focus on her own  _pride_  at reducing him to incomplete sentences and instead address what she knew was his meaning.  _Birth control_. She hadn’t yet had a chance to explain that aspect of this world’s  _magic_.

“It’s OK, you won’t. Don’t worry. Just let go.”

He was clearly confused but he trusted her (he  _always_  trusted her), recapturing her lips and throwing himself back into her enthusiastically.

After a few minutes they started losing their rhythm, and they fell over the edge together, crying out each other’s names and collapsing onto the couch in pure sated exhaustion.

When they finally regained their breath and their general awareness of reality, Killian spoke. “Emma, love, I’d like nothing more than to lie here and hold you for the rest of the day, but I do believe your parents and your boy are returning quite soon. I hate to say it but we should  _probably_  clothe ourselves.”

She groaned and finally lifted her hips from his, feeling empty the second their bodies disconnected. “We’ll take the shortcut, babe,” she said, snapping her fingers as she stood – returning their clothes to their bodies in the blink of an eye.

He jumped back at the sudden feel of the fabric. “You’re magnificent, love. I’ll never get used to that.” His eyes were sparkling with pride and love and  _god_  he was just the most amazing man she’d ever known.

“Really, Killian, after what we just did, you’re only impressed by my magic? Must be losing my touch.”

He stepped into her space, embracing her tightly, his lips dragging against her cheek as he whispered, “there aren’t words for what that felt like, Swan.”

She blushed – actually fucking  _blushed_  – and only caught on to the approaching sounds seconds before her family was descending upon the loft.

(Good thing she’d unlocked the door before they asked questions.)

Emma and Killian were standing comfortably at the edge of the living room as David, Mary Margaret, Regina, and Henry entered. They were excitedly chattering about Henry’s archery lessons with Mary Margaret and Robin, and they’d come back to the loft to drop off their arrows and bows before dinner.

They all greeted each other, Killian reaching out his hand to shake David’s.

“Where’s the hook, Hook?” Killian looked down, realizing for the first time that Emma hadn’t magically reattached his brace when she returned their clothes.

“The brace was getting uncomfortable and I don’t exactly need it for protection against other pirates currently, so I removed it for the afternoon of Netflix. Why, Dave, do I need to defend myself from you  _stabbing_  me again?”

Emma rolled her eyes and David stammered another apology and no one looked suspicious over her activities with her boyfriend ( _Doctor Who_ was still playing on the TV – hopefully no one asked her what was currently happening because she was  _lost_ ).

Mary Margaret started gathering everyone to go to Granny’s and Killian bowed out, giving his regrets.

“Apologies, milady, but I’ve got an evening planned with Jefferson and Mister Smee. But I do wish you all a lovely dinner.”

Emma walked him to the door where he placed a sweet kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll see you for breakfast tomorrow, right?” She asked (with an embarrassing amount of hope in her voice and yet, no she was  _not_  embarrassed.)

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Swan. Love you.”

She kissed his cheek again, grinning brightly as she locked eyes with him one last time.

“Love you, too.”

Emma was happier than she could ever remember being, was floating on a cloud, was full of clichés and sappy song lyrics and all kinds of fluffy nonsense because she loved her pirate and he loved her and they  _loved_  together and she was so overwhelmed by the weight of her afternoon that she was probably imagining Regina’s scoffing next to her.

“ _It’s about damn time._ ”


	5. What's the Opposite of Fake Dating?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fake Dating is a fun trope... but what about fake NOT dating? In this AU, Emma and Killian fall in love and get married in Vegas after knowing each other for one night, but pretend to their families that they've just met for fear of being judged.

**What's the Opposite of Fake Dating?**

Emma Swan did not like clichés.

So imagine her disgust when she woke up Sunday morning to realize she’d  _become_  one. She’d gone to Vegas for a perfectly respectable purpose – a work conference – and yet she’d ended up getting fantastically drunk, meeting a gorgeous wonderful amazing man, having gloriously satisfying sex with him through more than half the night, and then – idiot she was –  _marrying_  the bastard at 3 am at a drive-through chapel on the Las Vegas strip. Yeah, she went to Nevada to hone her managerial skills and she ended up becoming a fucking  _trope_.

This was crazy, crazy,  _crazy_. She did  _not_  let people in. She was not a romantic – she’d find a guy at a bar, head to a bathroom or a bedroom or a fucking broom closet, take what she needed, give an orgasm or two in return, and then  _bolt_. She never, ever spent the night. No, the last man she spent the night with had been  _hired_  to do so to keep track of her ( _psychotic_  family members were the worst). And the only other man she’d spent the night with had been in the back of a VW Bug and he’d left her to take the fall for his crime the next morning,  _soooo_.

Emma was a runner, and with good reason.

Yet here she lay, still in bed with the man she’d “gone home with” ( _married_ ) the night before, the sun rising through the thousand windows of one of many honeymoon suites in the tropical-themed resort in the middle of the goddamn desert. She lay here, cuddled up to the man like a needy teenager – with absolutely zero desire to run far away. No, she wanted to  _stay_. She craved this man’s presence like oxygen – which really is more of a  _need_  than a craving, but that’s not the point, OK? The point is she’s lying in a honeymoon suite, a silver band firmly wrapped around her left hand ring finger signifying her recent  _wedding_  to a fucking  _stranger_  and instead of being disappointed in herself or horrified or mentally calculating how much money and time it would take to get this shit annulled, like  _now_ , she was thinking how she should probably order them some breakfast and start the coffee before he wakes up.

Emma Swan has found herself married to a stranger in Vegas, has fallen into the plot of a goddamn sitcom, and even worse: she’s  _OK_  with it.

 

Killian Jones is a man who knows what he wants, and goes for it.  _A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets_ , after all.  But he never thought  _this_  would be what he’d fight for.

No,  _love_  seemed like the last thing he’d ever be wasting his energy on. The last woman he gave his whole heart to had died with it still firmly in her grasp, so he was just going to focus on anything else in the whole world to occupy his attention. He figured he’d be fighting for  _justice_  or a higher position at his firm or something  _strong_  and certainly not something purely emotional. Like he said, his heart was long buried with another.

Or he thought it was. Then he met the most wonderful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. She was objectively beautiful, of course, the kind of beautiful that made your knees weak and your cock twitch, but through her piercing green eyes you could see into her bloody soul and that itself held more beauty than in all the rest of the world  _combined_.

He met her at the craps table, and he realized after five minutes it was  _her_  he wanted to win. Not that she was a prize or  _loot_ , no – but she was the missing piece to his broken soul and he wasn’t about to let her just flutter away like was her obvious intention. She had walls a mile high – her projected  _freedom_  a mere tactic of flirting and not a true lack of barriers – but he was determined to scale them.

And he  _did_.

They drank. A lot. And the drinking was inhibition-lowering, and that was great. But what was _greater_  was her spirit and her stories and the delightful melody of her laugh.

When he’d thought about  _winning_ her he’d really only been hoping to earn her trust, her respect, and absolutely win her  _attraction,_  but he truly, honestly had never meant to win her  _hand in marriage_. Not that night. But it was  _her_  idea because she said she loved him so much but had such a bad habit of running and needed a reminder in the morning of the fact that he was  _different_ and she wanted him to stay with her forever and  _yes_  she’d been drinking but people are more _honest_  when they’re drunk and he felt exactly the same about her – his chest was on fire with how much he wanted her and needed her and felt compelled to keep her safe. He  _loved_  her and not just because she had fucked him senseless three times in his hotel room. No, because she really hadn’t fucked him senseless – they’d absolutely 100%  _made love_  and he wanted to stay with her forever, too, so they  _walked_  through the drive-through chapel and exchanged rings and  _I love you_ s and went back to his hotel room and consummated the marriage against the door and promptly cuddled up in the bed – spooning – and went to sleep.

Together. As they’d always stay.

He woke up to a knock and an empty bed which made his heart ache like the day it was the state police that knocked on his door, but a shuffling noise to his right put his nerves at ease. His  _wife_ was merely answering the door to retrieve the room service she’d ordered  _for them_  because their tummies were probably rumbling from starvation at all the physical exertion from the night before without proper nutrition to replenish them.

“Good morning?” she said hesitantly, like she was fully expecting  _him_  to bolt like she’d warned him she might want to.

So he needed to put her at ease immediately. “Good morning, my love. How are you doing this morning? Not too sore I hope. I did enjoy our adventures last night, but I wouldn’t want my  _wife_  to be hurting.”

At that she smiled (like the sun – yeah it was a tired, worn-out cliché, but it was  _accurate_  so bugger off), and brought the tray over to his ( _their_ ) bed, her face filled with joy (but also worry and confusion, too, because  _love_  or not, this was a weird situation).

They ate their breakfast (each one-handed as they kept one set of hands constantly entwined), their fingers running lovingly over the skin of the other’s during their somewhat tense discussion.

“So, you’ll move in with me?” She asked, still worried they were “moving too fast” despite the fact that they were already  _legally bound in matrimony_.

“Of course, love. It’ll take some time – New York to Boston isn’t terribly far, but I’ll need to rent a Uhaul for my things and such. I’ll put in for a transfer at work right away, and if I don’t get it, I can just quit. I’ve got savings.”

The logistic factors of all this should make it less romantic or something but really it made it  _more_ , thinking about suddenly becoming so domestic with this woman who made his heart  _soar_.

But then he thought a little more about leaving their little bubble and rejoining reality – and all the people who wouldn’t believe they could possibly know already that they were in love.

“What’ll we do about telling people, Emma?” he asked in a quiet voice. He didn’t want to make her feel ashamed because  _he absolutely wasn’t_. But you couldn’t stop the opinions of other people. And he  _knew_  they’d be harsh.

“I don’t have a lot of family. My adoptive parents and one non-crazy aunt. My little brother. If I called them and told them right now they’d be absolutely certain I was joking. I wasn’t kidding when I said that I don’t date. I’ve been quite…  _prickly_  on the idea of love for really all of my life.”

Killian had a small family, too, just his brother Liam and Liam’s wife Elsa. But, like Emma, he’d been closed off for quite some time. They wouldn’t believe he’d done something so  _rash_ , nor would they believe it was genuine.

(And how could you blame them – it really was  _crazy_ when viewed from the outside _._ )

“There’s one way we could do this, Killian, to make it more normal for our families and for work people and stuff. Because, yeah, no one’s going to accept  _this_.” She looked flustered and sad so he kissed her, pulling back before it could blossom into anything more heated. This discussion was important to their future, and a future was all he wanted with her, so he’d keep his hormones in check ( _newlywed_  or not).

 

She hated that faking it was the only option. She loved her family and they loved her (and same for Killian’s as well), but no one was going to  _get_  it. And Killian and Emma couldn’t  _stand_  the idea of lectures or fighting or whatever might come when people didn’t understand how they could possibly  _know_  so fast.

So they decided (well  _she_  decided, as was usually they case, but he was a gentleman and pretended it was a joint effort) to fake the slow burn, to make it “believable.”

In one way, it was sort of like a game. They could make it fun! It’s not like they  _lived_  with their families or friends – they’d have plenty of moments they could just  _be themselves_. So the  _faking it_ parts of life could be like their own little inside joke.

But Emma quickly didn’t think it was very funny. “Killian, I don’t  _want_  to take our rings off. Can’t we just… I don’t know, say they’re religious or something?”

“You think it’s more believable that we both  _separately_  came back from Vegas having found God than having found one another? I’m not a  _non-believer_ , love, but I’ve never been the organized kind. I really doubt they’d buy it.”

“But I  _like_  our rings. I  _like_  that I belong with you. And I don’t want to have to take it off!” Emma was whining. She  _knew_  it was a necessity. But that little band made her smile a hundred times a day and she didn’t want to make that sacrifice.

“Put it on a necklace, maybe? And wear it under your shirts? Though with your plunging necklines that won’t quite work.” Killian was being serious but also flirty, which was just  _fine_  by Emma – so she stepped into his space and moved his hand up to her breast.

“Only for you, darling,” she joked before he dipped her low and kissed her until she was dizzy.

Later that night, she removed the ring (fighting back tears because apparently now she was a  _sap_ ), and placed it in her jewelry box on the dresser she’d just half emptied to make room for Killian’s clothes.

(She was never so happy to be giving up her space.)

The day he moved in officially – the Uhaul parked outside and all – she mentioned a new neighbor to her mother.

“He’s kind of an ass,” Emma said with a secret smirk. “Thinks he’s God’s gift and all.”

“Come on, Emma, if he’s going to live close you’d better at least be  _nice_. Give the man a chance before you suggest he’s the devil.” Mary Margaret, Emma’s adoptive mother, was quite the optimist. She wasn’t one to push Emma toward  _romantic_  interests, but she did plead with her to just  _make friends_  sometimes. Mary still felt guilty for Emma’s time in the system, for the troubles she had for so many years before her adoption, but she always encouraged her to look past the people who’d hurt her before and to look forward to the things to come (she’d never believe Emma had finally taken her advice – to the extreme).

“I’ll be nice, mother. I’m just saying. I’ll, I don’t know, bake him a pie or something.”

She dropped his name in conversation many times, just talking about casual encounters on the street and such –  secretly smiling about the fact she was usually sitting on Killian’s lap for these phone conversations. Sometimes he’d kiss her neck or tickle that spot by her hip bone to try to get her to giggle, but usually he’d just listen patiently and wait for his turn to drop hints on the phone with his brother.

The trouble started when Liam wanted to come visit Killian’s new place. Because Killian didn’t  _have_ a new place (of his own). And Emma wasn’t about to remove any trace of her existence from the house just to keep up the charade. So instead, Killian invited Liam to a picnic at “his neighbor’s place,” hoping that Liam would just have fun at Emma’s and not actually request a closer look at Killian’s place.

It was sort of a ridiculous hope on Killian’s part. Emma warned him it would blow up in their faces, but Killian insisted – he was going to say his place was getting  _fumigated_  so they had to stay out.

The picnic was a great idea, though, for getting their families to meet each other. And at first it was going fantastically. Other neighbors came, so it didn’t seem suspicious that Killian and his brother were present. And Emma’s adoptive father was really loving the Jones boys.

Until the elder Jones asked Killian to at least  _point out_  his new house. So Killian picked a house at random, just a standard blue house with yellow shutters several houses away from Emma’s. It wasn’t three minutes later when a family exited its doors. Emma saw and made sure to distract Liam, but it was a pathetic attempt and Liam started to suspect something – not the  _truth_ , but _something_  nonetheless.

They were in the clear on the house debacle, but then there was the problem of Emma’s phone. It was  _full_  of pictures of her and Killian – unpacking the house, going out to dinner, even their escapades in Vegas were documented in her camera roll.

And her favorite photo – their wedding selfie – was the background on her phone.

“Emma, is that a picture of you and Killian on your phone? I didn’t know you guys even hung out that much,” Emma’s adoptive brother August observed, obviously not seeing the photo clearly enough to make out the rings they were showing off in it.

“Oh, um, yeah. We ran into each other last weekend and I lost a bet. I have to keep his picture as my background for two weeks.” Emma was a pretty good liar, but even to  _her_  the story sounded shaky at best.

“You  _like_  him, don’t you, sis?” August teased. “I’ve seen you look at him. Why don’t you just go for it, anyway? He’s probably not  _that_  bad.”

Well, at least they’d made a good impression on her brother.

After the day of the picnic there were a hundred more little slip-ups (their plan was ridiculous and doomed to fail, so it wasn’t surprising  _in the least_ ).

Emma picked up Killian’s ringing phone one day thinking it was hers (damn iPhones for all looking the same). Liam was confused, but Emma claimed they were at a town meeting. (Did town meetings exist anywhere but Stars fucking Hollow?)

Killian accidentally slipped and told an entire story to Elsa in  _we_  format instead of  _I_. “Who else was with you, Killy? Got a girlfriend you didn’t tell us about yet?” So he slipped in that he and Emma had gone,  _just as friends_ , but Elsa wasn’t sold and maybe that meant the plan was working? Emma really wasn’t sure. How slow was a realistic “slow burn,” anyway? Maybe they could be _dating_  now and it would be OK.

So they told their families they were casually seeing each other, nothing serious, of course. But it certainly didn’t seem not-serious when Mary Margaret noticed that Emma signed her last name as _Jones_  “accidentally” at the restaurant when she was paying for dinner (because it had been legally changed, after all).

“Are you seriously thinking about marrying him already, Emma? That’s so unlike you!”

“Uhhh, no. I mean, I could? I don’t know. Would it be so bad, mom?”

“Of course not, sweetheart! Whatever makes you happy.”

“Well, he makes me happy.”

 

Killian was the worst liar ever. He wanted nothing more than to gush about his wonderful life with his wonderful wife, but _no_  he had to pretend she was just some lady from down the street that he was sort of annoyed by.

Yeah, they’d opted to start the  _slow burn_  with  _not even liking each other_  because sadly that seemed in character for them ( _idiots_ , Emma had said;  _but it led us to each other_ , he countered). It was so hard. Not because he couldn’t complain about Emma genuinely. Ohhhh, how he  _could_. She was messier than he was used to. She was pretty bossy at times. She hogged the covers and often used all the hot water, too, though as her barely-familiar neighbor he couldn’t exactly bring up  _those_  issues.

But he  _loved_  her. More and more every single day.

Which is why he slipped and talked about her. A lot. And had to back pedal about why they were in the same place. Liam asked him once if he was stalking the poor girl, since he’d mentioned “running into her” at the movies, the grocery store, and the park all in one week’s time.

It wasn’t long after that Emma suggested they “start dating.” Which gave him too much freedom to drop her name in conversation, to mention things that had occurred in Las Vegas  _before they’d fucking known each other_ , so he’d have to back pedal again and say it happened one night in Boston but there were too many  _this one night_  stories that really didn’t make much sense.

And then there was the day Liam showed up to “his house” and no one was home. And Liam called Killian, who said he said he was sitting in his living room. So Liam literally walked up to that stranger’s house and peered in the living room to find it extremely  _empty_.

“Brother, you’re lying to me and I don’t understand why. You’re not doing drugs or something, are you? Did you join the CIA and not tell me about it?” Liam was being lighthearted and still quite firm all at once.

“I, uh, have something I’ll have to tell you. Eventually. But now is not the time.” Emma wasn’t home yet and he wasn’t about to blow their cover before he consulted her. They were a  _team_. They made decisions together (even when he let her think she made them herself).

She got home a few hours later, exhausted from work. She slumped down on the couch immediately and he felt guilty for the weight he was about to add to her life.

“We’re going to have to move this along a little faster. It’s been long enough that it’s appropriate for us to move in together, right?” He knew how ridiculous the question was, because  _seriously_ they were already married. They’d  _been_  married for three months now.

“It’s not time yet, Killian,” Emma groaned, her face smashed into a pillow. “There’s no way you or I would just  _move in_  with someone after only three months.”

“But we  _did_ , Emma! We would because we  _did_  and seriously. Lying is exhausting. I just want to be with you.”

“You  _are_  with me. Please. Just give it time.”

 

They were  _idiots_. Any fool could see they loved each other. A stranger off the street would see the electricity between the two of them – so of  _course_  their families would see it, too. Mary Margaret had heard a little something warmer than usual in her daughter’s voice when she’d first spoken of Killian, but it wasn’t until she saw them “casually” talking that she  _knew_. It was love.

She’d asked Liam about it, too – at the picnic Emma had. Maybe there was a spark but some reason they couldn’t be together. Was Killian taken? Did he have walls as high as her daughter’s? It turned out he  _did_ , but Liam saw he was smitten.

So Mary Margaret set out on a quest – she was going to get them together.

Until she realized they already  _were_. Silly, silly  _idiots_. It was August’s fault, really. He’d seen the picture of Killian on Emma’s phone at the picnic, so a few weeks later he hacked into her iCloud account to see the rest of the photos in her phone. And 90% of them were of Killian. Including some at their  _wedding_.

Mary Margaret was highly offended at first, of course. She’d missed her daughter getting  _married_. She’d never get that experience back! But then she was sad for a whole different reason: Emma had thought that her family wouldn’t accept her unconventional love story, and was therefore _hiding_  it. Her daughter had been a lost girl for much of her young life, Mary Margaret knew that, but it was so hard to accept. She’d given her love and a  _home_  and had dedicated her life to making Emma (and August) feel supported and like family – but Emma would always have some  _doubt_.

Well, no longer.

She felt bad about it (kind of), but Mary Margaret asked August to hack into Emma’s contacts so she could call Liam. Those crazy kids needed an  _intervention_.

 

_He knew it_. His brother had fallen fast and  _hard_  for that neighbor of his.

Well. Now he knew she wasn’t his  _neighbor_  at all, but his “roommate.”

Yeah, Liam had done a little more snooping when Killian hadn’t been “home” for his surprise visit. And guess whose living room he was in? Emma Swan’s.

Except he got a call later that afternoon from Mary Margaret Nolan, Emma’s mother, which revealed that Emma Swan had become Emma  _Jones_  months ago.

Those assholes had gone and gotten married without them.

Of course he realized the timeline was a little more complicated than that – it seems the wedding part had come before the  _dating_ , but he couldn’t believe his brother would think he would  _judge_ them for it. After all, Liam had  _told_  Killian that he’d known Elsa was the one for him the  _second_  Elsa had offered her hand when he slipped on a patch of ice. If there had been a wedding chapel next to Bentley Hall, he’d probably have married her that first day, too, despite their being only sophomores in college.

Mary Margaret had suggested an  _intervention_ , but Liam had been more excited for a  _Friends_ -style game of making them admit it themselves – “they don’t  _know_  we know they know we know.” But Mary Margaret had won in that argument. Only because she was  _right_  about one thing: their loved ones hadn’t trusted them to be  _happy_  for them. And that meant there was no room for joking.

 

They were three and a half months in when Mary Margaret suggested a little “family dinner.” Emma insisted it be at her house rather than Killian’s (still desperate to maintain that their houses weren’t one in the same). She made Killian hide all of his things in their bedroom or the attic, and had him “arrive” after her parents and August were already there. Liam and Elsa showed up not long after Killian, bringing along some delicious desserts and wine.

Emma was just finishing up setting the table when Mary Margaret asked that they all take a seat.

“We need to talk,” she started.

“I’ve found when a woman says that I’m rarely in for a pleasant conversation,” Killian responded with a nervous chuckle. Emma’s stomach  _dropped_ , worried that her mom might be telling her she shouldn’t be with Killian, that they weren’t good together, that he wasn’t a good guy (or  _worse_  that she wasn’t good for  _him_ ). Unconsciously Emma moved to sit on Killian’s lap, wrapping one arm around his waist while the other reached for his hand to lace together their fingers.

Her mother’s next words shocked her. “Where did you put your rings, Emma?”

_Rings?_

Then Liam spoke up. “August showed us the wedding pictures, guys. Emma, you really should have a more secure password on your iCloud. Also, you guys are so obvious it’s painful.”

Emma’s eyes were so wide they probably looked like they were popping out of her head and she squeezed Killian and started shaking and struggled to figure out what was going on because  _none_ of this made sense.

“Liam!” Mary Margaret chided. “We were going to do this  _nicely_ , remember?”

Emma felt like she should probably be defending herself from something or she should be mad or at least annoyed because there was  _definitely_  some kind of privacy invasion going on, but also her mother had been conspiring with Killian’s brother?

“I don’t understand,” Emma finally managed to whisper.

“I’m guessing they’re onto us, love,” Killian said, brushing her cheek with his lips.

_Shit_. Though they didn’t seem angry with them. No, everyone seemed kind of…  _sad_.

“Are you disappointed in me?” Despite her best effort to sound strong and sure, Emma’s voice came out small and scared and so very  _fragile_.

“Never!” Her father finally shouted. “We wish you both hadn’t have lied, though. And, honestly, it looked like you probably needed some help down that ‘aisle’ of yours. I’d have been happy to escort you, sweetheart, whether it was down a church hall or on the beach or even down a drive-through in Vegas. Anything. We just want you to be happy.”

Emma’s first instinct was to be ashamed, but then she realized a funny thing.  _No one fucking cared_. Even her  _dad_  wasn’t mad at her for getting drunk and married in Vegas.

Well, she shouldn’t say no one  _cared_  – in fact, they did care. But they weren’t  _judging_. So what was the point in faking it?

God, they were such  _idiots_.

 

Killian turned a shade of purple when he realized the purpose of their visit. They  _knew_. He and Emma had slipped up one to many times and somehow their families put it together and also somehow talked to each other because Liam had winked at August and to his knowledge the two had never spoken just the two of them  _ever_  and it was a little too conspiratorial to have been by accident.

No, they knew they were brothers-in-law-in-law or however that worked when you were the brothers of the married couple.

Once  _Emma_  realized what was going on, things got very tense. For a second he wasn’t sure if World War III was about to break out or if his wife was about to collapse crying, but then all of a sudden her beautiful laughter started ringing out throughout their  _very_ clean home. She was shaking in his lap, absolutely  _losing it_  in giggles and gasps. Whether out of contagion or awkwardness, the rest of the little dinner party started laughing, too, and five minutes later they were all clutching their bellies because they’d laughed so hard their abs hurt.

Finally his lovely wife spoke. “Yeah, so I got drunk and married a guy in Vegas! And then tried to pass him off as a new neighbor. I’m totally getting a daughter-of-the-year award, right?”

“You owe me a dance,” is all her father said in return.

 

The whole family flew back out to Vegas a month or so after the little  _intervention_. Emma wore a lacy white dress and Killian put on a shiny red vest and they declared their love in front of witnesses who were neither drunk nor paid to be there. Afterward they went back to their hotel and danced the night away at the club – Emma and Killian regaling the crowd with their own little dance to Chris Brown’s “Forever.” Emma danced with her dad and Killian danced with Mary Margaret and at some point when everyone was too drunk to stop her, Emma picked some flowers next to the street and flung them behind her – a very drunk Spring Breaker behind them catching the “bouquet.”

“Better find yourself a stranger to marry,” Emma said to the girl, swaying a bit into Killian’s side. “That’s how I got  _my_ happily ever after!”

At that, Killian swooped his arm beneath her to pick her up bridal-style, carrying her to their room where they promptly  _passed out_ , content in each other’s arms.

Emma Jones had become a cliché. And she didn’t give a flying fuck. Because she was  _happy._


	6. The Emma Button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene where Emma gets Killian a cell phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff fluff fluff

**The Emma Button**

It was days like this that made Emma Swan stop for a second and go, “what the hell is my life?”

Not because it wasn’t  _good_. No, she was  ~~completely~~ mostly happy. She had her son (whom she loved more than anything else in the world - it was True Love and all). She had her parents: two wonderful, loving people whom she’d just days ago accepted as  _mom_  and  _dad_ (finally). And she had a somewhat kind of  _maybe_ love interest who happened to be both the hottest and sweetest man in this realm or any other she’d visited so far.

(And we won’t go into the  _negatives_  of her life currently - the snow monster mystery, the  _deceased wife of the True Love of her son’s other mother_  she brought back from the past. No, those factors are just  _too much_  for this moment.)

The  _what the hell is my life_  moment hits her just outside the electronics store. It’s a necessary purchase, getting Killian -  _Captain Hook_  - a cell phone. He’s as much a part of the team as anyone else, but he’s always the last to know of things - unless he’s already with Emma, of course. Which, yes, happens often. But sometimes there are emergencies and she doesn’t know where he is and walking around to find him is time consuming and silly and she isn’t exactly comfortable with using her magic to  _poof_  to find him or use a locator spell because all magic comes with a price and why not just use the damn technology of this realm, you know? 

And, yes. Sometimes she just wants to hear his voice. Sometimes there is no emergency at all except that she  _misses_ him or that Henry wants another sailing lesson or she wants to ask him to meet her and the rest of the gang for a nice dinner at Granny’s. 

She doesn’t know where their relationship is going, but it is, in fact, going  _somewhere_. So, yes. She’s buying a cell phone for a fucking  _cartoon-turned-possible-boyfriend_. 

What. Is. Her. Life.

She resigns herself to accepting her weird reality, marches into the electronics store, and buys the simplest thing she can find - a  pay-as-you-go  plan with a phone much resembling the one her foster brother had back in the year 2000.

Before she even leaves the store, she programs numbers into the phone: speed dials set for David, Regina, Mary Margaret, Smee, Henry, and, of course, Emma. Being the ancient model it is, speed dials are easy. Just press a number and hit send. Even a 300 year-old pirate can figure that one out, right?

 

She finds him at the docks half an hour later. She’d already stopped at his other usual haunts: his apartment at Granny’s, the diner, the Rabbit Hole. But he’s sitting peacefully on a bench overlooking the harbor, sipping from his ever-present flask of rum.

“Hey, sailor,” she calls as she approaches him. He recognizes her voice before he sees her, so his smile is absolutely  _beaming_  the second his eyes meet hers. 

“Swan! To what do I owe the pleasure of this most unexpected visit?” he asks, motioning her to sit next to him.

She smiles involuntarily - still absolutely terrified about this recent development in their relationship… but also absolutely  _thrilled_.

(Though she’s trying not to show it.)

“Well, I actually come bearing gifts.  _A_ gift.” She sits and pulls the small device out of the plastic bag. “It’s time for you to get used to this land’s  _magic_.”

“Eager to keep me around, Swan?” he asks with a wink, before turning more serious. “I take it this is one of those talking devices.”

“It is. So, see if there’s a call coming in,” she pauses and pulls her own phone out, dialing his number. “You’ll just press  _this_ button to answer.” She has him answer it and shows him how to hold it to his ear, her fingers gently brushing against his in the process. 

( _tingle, tingle_ )

“Then, if you need to call anyone, you’ll just press these buttons. I’ll write down which number goes to which person, but you’ll press a button and then this  _send_  button and it’ll ring their phone. OK?”

“Well which one is the  _Emma_ button?” He’s smiling like an idiot and she’s smiling back and _god_  this is just so ridiculous.

“I’m the ‘1′ button. Easy, right?”

“You know me well, love. You’re always first on my list.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and leans his forehead against hers and she can’t help the burning need to lock her lips with his. So she _does_. It’s soft, gentle, just a little nip. But, like the day before in the woods, it’s a  _promise_. She’s not running away anymore.

 

He calls her three times that day: Once to “make sure it works” (and tell her she’s  _beautiful_ ); once to ask her what her favorite flower is; and once just to say good night. 

( _what a goof_.)

But he never sounds so happy as when he answers  _her_ call the next night, his eager “good evening, lass” nothing compared to the over-excited “pleasure to be of your assistance, Swan!” when she requests his help with the power outage situation.

“See you in a few minutes, Hook.”

“Of course, love.” 

_What the hell is her life?_

(Perfect.)


	7. 2:09 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the six weeks of peace following Rumple’s banishment, Emma is still constantly worrying about Killian’s safety, and that (along with screaming baby Neal) is interfering with her and Henry’s ability to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Cobra Swan fluff

**2:09 am**

Emma rolled over for the thirteenth time that hour, desperate to find a position comfortable enough to ease her ridiculous brain into submission.

Yes, Killian had almost left her.  _Almost_ , she kept telling herself. It wasn’t his fault and it wasn’t  _her_ fault and everyone was fine now and she should just go to sleep because she’d see him in the morning for breakfast at Granny’s and everything was going to be  _fine_. There were no more villains in town (well, only  _reformed_  ones, anyway), and most of her day-to-day stress revolved around nothing more serious than misbehaving dwarves. But still, a week after returning his heart, her thoughts were still plagued by images of him in pain, of the emptiness in his eyes, the way a lightning bolt cracked through her torso at the realization that he was in danger (and that she hadn’t done anything to save him).

And her dreams (well,  _nightmares_ ) – they were even worse. In those she’d watch Rumple crush his heart, watch him fall out of the clock tower or get sucked into the hat. Even worse, she’d see visions of future terror, of Killian and Emma and Henry having a quiet afternoon picnic when suddenly Rumple shows up  _again_  to steal his heart and turn it to dust right in front of them.

Killian was safe, probably asleep in his bed at Granny’s. So why the hell couldn’t she just  _sleep_?

“Mom, I can practically hear you thinking,” Henry grumbled from his bed on the other side of the room.

(Reason Number 336 why Emma needed her own place – so her son could have his own damn room and not be bothered by his mother’s worried tossing and turning.)

“Sorry, kid. I’ll try to stay still.”

“Why don’t you just call him?” he asked as he slid off the twin mattress, dragging his blanket along with him to plop down on Emma’s bed.

Emma might have been a human lie detector, but it seemed her son was more like a mind reader. Or, well, just really perceptive.  

“Am I that transparent?” Emma chuckled and scooted over to make room for Henry against her pillow. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“But you’re still not going to be able to sleep until you  _know_. You know, you guys should come up with a code or something. So you both know if the other is in danger without having to say it. Like you’ll say ‘the stump is on fire’ and he’ll know something is wrong!”

Emma tousled his hair a bit, her heart swelling with pride. Her son was so much like her and Neal and yet so  _different_. The kid had a lot of the same powers they did –  _human_  powers, of course – but he was determined to use them for  _good_ , not to smuggle turkey sandwiches and keychains out of a convenience store.

“That’s actually a great idea. Don’t you think  _we_  should have one of those, too?” Come to think of it, Emma should probably suggest that  _everyone_  come up with secret code phrases for each other. It would certainly help to be prepared for when the next evil attacked (yes  _when_  not  _if_ because Emma Swan had accepted her crazy new reality for what it was – not full of peace, that’s for sure).

Henry snuggled into the pillow, pulling the blanket closer around him – the loft got chilly this time of year – and scrunched up his face in contemplation. “How about ‘I could really go for an apple turnover?’”

“Isn’t that a little dark, kid? Your mom probably wouldn’t approve of the reference to her former evil ways.”

“That’s why it’s perfect! It’s something I’d never ever say.” Henry looked proud of himself and Emma felt another surge of pure joy. If anything could distract her from the fearful thoughts swirling in her head, it was the memory of that day she blew out a candle and heard a gentle knock at her door. The day Henry brought her  _home_.

And he chose that moment to bring her out of her thoughts. “But stop distracting me with future _Operation_  talk, mom. You need to call Killian.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Henry’s stare bore right through her. Yeah, that’s another thing her son was: persistent.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand beside her (flipped upside down so she wasn’t obsessing over if the screen had lit up with any new notifications… how  _teenager_  of her), immediately noticing the time. 2:09am. Yeah, she and Henry needed some sleep, and if bugging Killian was how to do it, well, she who was she to argue?

She chose Killian’s name from her Favorites list and it rang seven times before his voicemail picked up: “Ahoy, mateys! You’ve reached Captain Hook!” Henry’s voice said on the message, with Killian cutting in from the background: “ _I don’t talk like that, lad!”_

The two of them smiled briefly at the silly voice message, but the moment passed and Emma slumped down in defeat. She didn’t know exactly how much she needed to hear his voice – his _actual_  voice and not the recording – until he didn’t pick up. Emma left a brief message just saying to call her and she’s sorry for it being so late, but her heart broke into a sprint.

Henry was just about to offer further advice or comfort when Reason Number  _One_  that Emma needed her own place made himself known.

_Neal_. She loved her brother so much that it hurt. He was just the tiniest little thing, all wiggles and soft skin and big bright eyes. But, oh, the crying. Crying, crying,  _crying_ , all through the night. And the loft – well, it didn’t even have  _walls_. So she and Henry would have to cover their ears with their pillows or put earbuds in to drown out the noise.

(Yes, she’d  _thought_ about the future possibility of little pirate babies of her own. It wasn’t the concept of caring for a child she was against. But if she wasn’t even having sex, she shouldn’t have to deal with babies screaming through the night. Period.)

Henry’s face squished up, annoyed but still polite, at the screaming of his uncle. Emma shot him a sympathetic glance. At least if Henry fell asleep in class tomorrow the teacher would know who to blame (Ariel had taken over for Snow during her maternity leave – which would soon be coming to an end).

“Sorry, kid. I really will find us a place soon,” Emma promised with determination.  _Seriously_. She was finding somewhere. Even if she had to pull an Ingrid and build a damn ice castle in the middle of the woods. They needed some  _silence_.

“Mom, why don’t we just go  _see_  Killian? There’s no way you’ll sleep until you know he’s safe. And there’s no way I’ll sleep until you  _and_  Uncle Neal sleep. So we have to go take care of this. Now.”

“Henry…”

“No arguing! We’ll go say hello and I’ll find something very interesting outside his door so you can go in and kiss him goodnight and then we’ll come home and Neal will be asleep and we can sleep. It’s Operation… well  _Operation Henry’s Too Tired To Come Up With A Cool Name_. OK?”

Neal wailed once more and Emma heard her mother gag a little bit as she started to change his diaper and the sour smell wafting toward their sleeping quarters… well that settled it. “All right, kid. Get your jacket.”

Mary Margaret was so occupied with cleaning excrement off her crying son that she didn’t even notice Emma and Henry departing the loft at such an odd hour. Henry winked at Emma as they very carefully closed the door and stepped lightly all the way down the stairs. The loft wasn’t far from Granny’s and it was only mildly freezing outside, so the walk wasn’t terrible. It was nice to get some air and hear nothing but the wind and the sounds of their footsteps and shallow breaths.

Getting into Granny’s was the hardest part. She locked her doors after 2am, so only someone with a key could enter. And it wasn’t that Emma and Killian weren’t at key-sharing levels of commitment – it’s just that there was literally just the one key that obviously Killian needed for himself.

She stood at the entryway contemplating how they’d get inside when Henry offered a plan. “Just make like Harry Potter, mom!  _Accio key_?”

“I wish it worked like that. Harry Potter magic seems so much easier than real magic. And, you know, there’s the whole  _magic comes with a_   _price_  deal.”

Emma  _knew_  how she could get into Granny’s. She’d been a thief for years before she ever ended up in prison, and she’d definitely bent some rules even after that in her bail bonds business. But should the  _sheriff_  really break into a B&B all because she was irrationally worried about her hundreds of years-old pirate boyfriend?

Apparently the answer was  _yes_  because she was pulling a bobby pin out of her hair before she had time to really give it a thought.

While she was picking the lock, Henry called Killian one more time.

No answer.

The door clicked open and Henry hissed out a quick approval at his mom’s skills.

(Not that this was the first time they were breaking in somewhere together …  _oops_. Emma wasn’t exactly getting  _mom of the year_ , was she?)

Henry took Emma’s hand and she smiled as they bounded up the stairs together. Henry’s ever-present support and comfort had her convinced they would find a soundly sleeping Killian, but she still recognized that she needed to know  _for sure_. So with a quick nod of encouragement from Henry, she knocked gently on the door and waited to hear signs of life.

Just a few seconds and a short series of thumps and drags later, the door was open and Killian was on the other side, clad in only a thin pair of flannel pants and Emma’s big zip-up hoodie (of course, only zipped up half way so the majority of his chest hair was on display).

“Ah!” he sleepily announced. “I must be dreaming. What brings my two favorite people to my little abode at this quite unreasonable hour, love?”

His hair was tousled and his head was probably still swimming with the dreams her rapping at the door had ripped him from, but his eyes were practically  _glowing_  with happiness. They really were his favorite people. At some point Emma might actually let that sink in.

Before she could respond, Henry cheerily spoke up. “Mom couldn’t sleep and you wouldn’t answer your phone. Don’t you know you’re required to check in every 4 hours for at least a month after all near-death experiences? I should write down these rules for the future.”

(How he had the energy to be this spunky at 3am Emma wasn’t sure – hopefully he hadn’t snuck a Red Bull while she was retrieving her jacket or something.)

“Well, lad, I apologize for my error, but I seem to have misplaced the energy cord for the talking phone. But seeing as that error has led to this wonderful visit, I’m not prepared to truly regret it.” Killian’s gaze had shifted to Emma and he waggled his eyebrows and smirked and she finally gave into the screaming in her heart and wrapped her arms  _tight_  around his torso, her head resting against his chest where the beating of his heart was evident.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” she mumbled, her voice smaller than she’d intended.

Killian led them to his kitchen, offering to brew up some  _Sleepytime_  tea for everyone so they could get some sleep before the sunrise.

“Sleepytime?” Emma asked, confused. “Are you trying to get us all doped up and tired so we pass out in the street on our walk home?”

Killian looked truly aghast at her suggestion. “Of course not, Swan! I’d assumed you and the lad would simply remain here until morning. It’s awfully late, you know. And I’ve got plenty of extra pillows and blankets. My couch isn’t the most comfortable bit of furniture you’ll ever see, but I’d imagine it’ll offer you a sounder sleep than a loft with a screaming baby.”

He’d just assumed they’d stay. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he was just taking care of his  _family_.

That thought made her want to run far,  _far_  away – like, run back to New York and never return. But at the same time it truly  _calmed_  her. Not only was he alive and well, but she and her son were his main priority. He was living and  _living for them_  and her heart was already so full from Henry’s support that night and tears were pooling at the edges of her eyes because it was all just too much, but she just stood there unblinking, praying the tears wouldn’t fall and alarm either of her boys.

But Killian noticed (Killian  _always_  noticed).

“Can we, mom?” Henry asked, truly excited. “We could actually sleep in for once!”

She discretely dabbed at the moisture under her eyes as she turned back into Killian’s chest. “Well, as long as we’re not a burden.”

“Never,” Killian said, absentmindedly running his fingers through Emma’s ponytail. He kissed the top of her head and went to turn on his kettle and gather the tea bags and sugar.

Meanwhile, Emma and Henry collected blankets and pillows from the closet, putting so many of them onto Killian’s couch that it looked like a big marshmallow. Henry jumped onto it and sprawled out, the careless joy in his expression much more like that of the 10 year-old boy who’d shown up at her doorstep than the teenager he was now becoming.

Emma threw some blankets on the oversized chair as well, uncertain of her own sleeping arrangements. She’d prefer to sleep with Killian, of course, but she would never want to make Henry uncomfortable. Or Killian, for that matter.

(They’d slept very  _near_  each other many times, but never shared the same bed.)

(The pitfalls of magic villains and of denying your very strong feelings for an inordinate amount of time.)

The three of them sipped at their tea, talking about the events of that week, about how different Storybrooke felt when there wasn’t a wicked witch or an ice queen.

“You should have been here when everyone was cursed, Killian. Now that was the  _bad_  kind of peaceful. Until my mom showed up, anyway.”

“Aye, thank heavens she did, then?” He winked and the three of them clinked mugs and finished their tea in silence.

Some minutes later Henry finally yawned, the fatigue setting in. He excused himself to his “bedroom,” hugging his mother goodnight.

“I’ll be right in,” Emma said (the hug making her feeling short now that her son was nearly her height).

“No, mom. Just stay with him. That chair is tiny even for you.”

They smiled at each other and Henry shuffled away and collapsed on the makeshift bed, his breaths evening out with sleep after an alarmingly short amount of time.

Killian had put all the dishes away and was leaning almost obscenely against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his eyebrow quirking up toward his hairline. She was trying desperately not to be affected, but it was hopeless and she was too tired to fight it, her hands reaching for his hand and stump to open up his arms for her embrace.

They were quiet for a few moments, Emma just relishing in his  _safety_. “I’m sorry I worried you, love. I’ll purchase another energy cord in the morning,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

“I promise I’ll get less clingy. I just keep worrying about you. Dreaming that you’ll get taken away.”

“Oh, Emma,” he said, brushing the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “I’ll never leave you.”

Emma smiled – really  _smiled_  – her eyes flicking down to his lips. At that he leaned forward, slowly, gently, and captured her lips with his, nipping sweetly,  _chastely_ , sealing his promise.

(She wouldn’t leave him, either.)

He led her over to his bed, pulling down the covers for her to climb in. “I’ll take the floor if you’d prefer it,” he offered (ever the gentleman).

“Ugh, you idiot. Just get in.” She rolled her eyes, scooting to the far side of the bed so her left side would line up with his right. His answering smile was one of relief as he eased himself down as well, the warmth emanating from his body even from a couple of feet away more comforting than Emma cared to examine.

Both settled, Emma reached across the space between them, intertwining their fingers over the comforter. “Goodnight, Killian.”

“Goodnight, Swan.”

For once, that night she didn’t dream at all.


	8. Your Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian has continued to always give Emma anything she wants… and it’s starting to piss her off. (Future fic)

**Your Choice**

It’s what Emma’s come to expect. No matter what they’re doing, it always comes back to one phrase.

“Your choice.”

Appetizers at dinner? Her choice. Movie for date night? Her choice. Outfit for him to wear to her parents’ anniversary party? Her choice.

Always, always,  _always_  her choice.

And at first it’s endearing. No one’s  _ever_  given her choices before. No, from the time she was born, she was nothing but a consequence of other people’s decisions. She was tossed about and given hand-me-downs and even the first thing she  _took_  just because she wanted it – that yellow bug that’s practically part of her personality – even  _that_  was technically already stolen by someone else, and that  _someone else_  was seemingly predestined to be part of her life.

Then Killian Jones came along – entirely by chance. And he fought with her, but then fought  _for_  her, and eventually promised that he’d never trick her. He wanted her to  _choose him_.

Which she did. But even since that moment, he’s continued to give her everything  _she_  wants, like he’s still trying to win her favor, trying to  _prove_  something.

Dumbass pirate. There was  _nothing_  left to prove.

So she tried to push back, starting small.

“What were you thinking for dinner tonight, Killian?” she asked, their joined hands swinging happily between them as they strolled toward her house.

“Well, Swan, whatever you’re hungry for, I suppose.” He smirked and winked and flirted like an idiot and she simply rolled her eyes.

“Nah, it’s your choice tonight,” she responded, shrugging her shoulders.

“Well you mentioned tortellini earlier. Why don’t we go with that?”

Even the decisions he  _did_  make were still based on her.

But she wasn’t just going to give up. She tried to get him to choose a paint color for the guest bedroom. She tried to make him decide where they’d go on vacation. She even got poor Henry involved, coercing the teenager to make Killian choose the activity for guys’ night with the Hoods. But as another person Killian truly loved, Henry was subject to the same selfless treatment.  _Your choice, lad_.

(Yes, Emma was well aware how ridiculous her problem sounded.  _Oh, your boyfriend is just tooooo doting? I’m_ so _sorry for you_ [eye roll]. But if Emma could accept that she loved him, then he should damn well accept it, too.)

The real  _fight_ happened on a Wednesday. She’d made dinner for the family – Emma, Killian, Henry, Regina, Robin, Roland, Mary Margaret, David, and baby Neal. The house was crammed, everyone gathered in her living room watching Neal stumble his way across the carpet. Emma was putting the finishing touches on dinner – setting the table, taking the rolls out of the oven, putting little garnishes on the entrees (yeah, she  _liked_  the domestic stuff and there was nothing wrong with that, OK?).

Then she realized she’d forgotten to make up a beverage. Killian walked in to check on her and she asked him, “What do you think, babe, lemonade or iced tea?”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead and rubbed his hook against her back. “Your choice, darling.”

Some might say the series of events to follow was an “overreaction,” but Emma would disagree.

“For God’s  _sake_ , Killian, make a damn decision for once in your stupid life!” Despite having mastered control of her post-Dark One powers, her outburst still caused some electrical anomalies, the lights flickering throughout the house (and probably the whole town in the process).

“I’m sorry, love, have I upset you?” The furrow of his brow was clueless and adorable, reminding her far more of  _Deckhand Hook_  than her fearless pirate boyfriend.

“Yes!  _Yes_ , you’ve upset me. You know that I’m not the only one in this relationship, right? You’re allowed to have a preference sometimes! Stop trying to  _win_  me. You’ve got me. I’m happy. But I’d be happier if you’d just let me make you happy for once in your goddamn life!”

She was breathless, shaking, and unable to maintain eye contact when she finished, her fists clenched at her sides. She should have been embarrassed – there’s no doubt her whole family (and the wolves down the road) heard her tirade – but she didn’t have the capacity to think about anything but the fact that Killian needed to just fucking  _relax_. She wasn’t going to leave him. Not ever. Not even if he chose the most hideous curtains known to man. She was in it for the long haul.

“Emma, you know I’d never do anything to upset you. I just… I just want you to be happy.” His voice was low, apologetic. Besides his voice and her harsh breathing, the house was perfectly silent – it seemed Regina had poofed the entire family out of the house sometime after her initial shouting. Killian looked in the direction of the living room and cringed, coming to the same realization Emma had. She felt a flash of shame that she caused his face to fall the way that she did (and caused the disappearance of everyone close to her), but this awkwardness was a long time coming.

“I just told you, you idiot. I  _am_  happy. And I’m not going anywhere. You’re allowed to have opinions. I  _want_  you to. I want to fight about which show to watch on Netflix and what kind of car to get and what theme to pick for the nursery… if that ever happens. And I want to let you  _win_. Because  _my choice_  is you. It’s  _always_  you. I will sit through a five hour documentary on Vikings if that’s what you want, because I love you. So stop giving me everything and just take what I’m trying to hand you!”

His eyes softened as soon as she used the word  _love_ , even though it had become a regular confession in their life.  _I love you_ s were anything but rare; yet he melted for her every single time she uttered it. And she couldn’t deny her reaction was the same when the words left his lips as well.

He approached her slowly, reaching his hand and hook toward her with caution. She wrapped her hands around them and stepped between his legs, closing the space between them until her head was tucked neatly beneath his chin. His thumb stroked the back of her hand as her other hand slid up his hook and under his sleeve, stopping to caress the skin at the edge of his leather brace.

They stood that way for many minutes, just waiting out the tension, letting the warmth of one another’s embrace ground them.

They had each other always – in addition to a whole lot more – and didn’t need to worry any longer about being alone, being unworthy, being left behind. Everything was OK.

Killian finally sighed, backing up from Emma (their arms still entangled) to look into her eyes. “Now that we’ve scared off the whole family…” he chuckled and she smiled back, shaking her head (having a family could sure get messy). “I’ll call Regina to alert her it’s safe to return. And you can make the lemonade?”

“As you wish,” she said.


	9. Her First Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma spends an Autumn afternoon babysitting and giving the kids the Fall experience she never got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the most fluff ever.

There was something about mid-October that made Emma’s usual hot cocoa with cinnamon just taste… better.

Maybe it was the smell of falling leaves wafting through the window of her (very own) house. Maybe it was the warmth of the fuzzy red sweater she was bundled in, tucked into the corner of the couch. Or maybe it was the unique taste lingering in her mouth left behind by Killian’s apple-cider laced kisses.

(Yeah, it was probably that last one.)

They sat on the couch, her hand wrapped tightly around his hook as they sipped at their beverages, just enjoying the last bits of silence for the morning before the kids arrived. Since the darkness had been defeated, everyone had been giving her plenty of space – whether that were because they were allowing her time to bask in the light with Killian or because they were still slightly  _afraid_  of her, well she wasn’t quite sure. But it was time to start paying everyone back for their kindness, so she’d offered to babysit so the other grown-ups could enjoy some mulled wine and candlelight rather than reruns of  _The Wiggles_.

Emma hadn’t assumed Killian would help her, but that’s only because Emma could sometimes be an idiot. The man loved kids and he  _loved_  her, so of course he was chipper about the opportunity to be her second-in-command.

Of course, he didn’t realize exactly how much he’d signed up for. It had been so long since Emma had done anything to truly enjoy the autumn – when she was a kid she was only lucky to have a few “fun” foster homes that actually cared about the wellbeing and enjoyment of the kids in their care, and the most recent Fall in her adult life, she’d been a little too preoccupied with reigning with darkness and exacting revenge that she never really thought to sit down and enjoy a latte.

So she decided this was her big chance – she was going to make absolutely the  _most_  of this season as possible. And she was going to do so with a whole hoard of children.

“I thought it was just Roland and Neal, love,” Killian had wondered aloud as Emma’d gathered up a dozen pumpkins the day before. “And Neal can’t even  _carve_  on his own.”

Emma had laughed, using her magic to transport the heavy gourds into her tiny yellow bug. “I may have gotten us in over our heads,” she’d responded with a shy smile. She knew he’d forgive her over-excitement. Eventually.

They finished off their hot beverages just as the first knock came at the door. Killian leaned over and kissed Emma one last time before the chaos began, his lips lingering over hers in a content smile.

“Keep smiling, buddy, this is going to be a  _long_  day.” She locked eyes with him before snagging the mug out of his hand and taking them both over to the sink.

“Can’t wait,” he said over his shoulder, finally easing himself up off the couch to go answer the door.

“Killy!” Roland cried, wrapping his arms tightly around Killian’s legs before Emma or Killian could even say  _hello_  to the parade of people entering her house.

Robin and Regina entered first, Robin tugging on Roland’s sweatshirt in warning ( _son, what did I say about attacking Uncle Killian?_  Robin admonished, but the kid just smiled.  _I can’t help it!_ ). Behind them were Henry, Grace, Ava, and Nicholas, each rushing to the crock pot to grab a mug of the hot apple cider Emma had promised them. Mary Margaret and David were next, David carrying a very active Neal, a wiggling toddler who immediately started squealing out for his  _sissy_.

Emma wove her way between the kids and reached out for her little brother, grasping him in a tight hug. Her parents had dressed him in the little pumpkin outfit she’d gotten for him, and he even had the apple mittens in his pockets that Granny had crocheted a few weeks before. The kid was adorable and Emma loved to soak up his warm affection. It wasn’t exactly the sibling relationship she’d always dreamed of having, but it was wonderful all the same.

Regina leaned down to Roland, asking him once again to behave himself for “the two idiots.”

At that, it was  _Regina’s_  turn to be admonished by Robin, but she only rolled her eyes before addressing Emma. “Are you sure you can handle this, Savior? I know you think you have the whole _childcare_  thing down because you’ve managed to not kill Henry, but it’s a whole lot different when you actually have to deal with the  _hard_  parts of their childhood.”

Yeah, Regina had mostly reverted to the snark-levels of the  _beginning_  of their friendship ever since life had slowed down to (Storybrooke) normal (AKA no villains trying to kill or curse them). Regina’s words had less  _bite_  now that she wasn’t truly trying to run Emma out of town, but it didn’t keep her from exuding massive levels of sass toward “the savior and her pirate.”

Mary Margaret and David thanked Emma for the hundredth time, hugging her and Neal together. “Emma, you don’t even  _know_  how much we need this. I can’t remember the last double date we were on. Or  _if_  we’ve ever been on one. Plus we need some  _grown up time_ , you know?” Mary Margaret babbled.

“Yeah, mom, I know  _all_  about your grown up time. I’ll knock before I bring Neal home, OK?” Emma smirked and Mary Margaret went red and David pretended he couldn’t hear a thing his wife and daughter were saying.

As the adults shuffled out, Killian worked to arrange the kids on the couch, Roland plopped on Henry’s lap and Nicholas on the floor between Ava’s legs. Grace made sure to leave a foot or so of space between her and Henry – Jefferson had told Emma how worried she was that Emma would be angry that she was spending time with her son (it seemed no one had forgotten her  _slight_ meltdown when Henry had been seeing Violet. No, the Dark Swan wasn’t a fan of her son dating and apparently wanted to make sure  _everyone_ knew it. And now Emma Swan was paying the price).

Emma sat her brother down on the recliner and faced the hoard of children. “OK, guys. We have a _big_  day planned. Pumpkin carving. Corn maze. Train ride. Apple pie. What’ll we do first?”

Emma was giddy and she wasn’t even hiding it. She was probably more excited than half the kids, practically bouncing up and down with joy, but no one was about to make fun of her for it (again, could be kindness; could be fear…).

“Corn maze!” Roland yelled and Henry winced in pain, the shriek piercing his eardrum.

“As you wish,” Emma said.

“All right, lads, let’s all get close together,” Killian announced, picking up Neal from his chair and squishing close to the rest of the group standing near the couch. He and Emma had practiced this, so it should work just fine, but she wanted to make sure they were touching as much as possible (in Harry Potter there was that whole  _splinching_  thing that she wasn’t entirely sure  _wasn’t_  real with the poofing technique).

Once they were sufficiently huddled she called to them to hold on tight and all eight of them disappeared in a cloud of sparkly yellow smoke, reappearing on a hill above a corn field just this side of the edge of town.

Nicholas was squealing with excitement about her little magic trick, but the rest of them were staring at Emma confused. Even Killian was quirking an eyebrow in concern – but Emma just smiled with secret enjoyment.

“Uh, mom. There isn’t a maze,” Henry finally said.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Ava remarked, rolling her eyes.

Of course, Killian was quick to jump in on the juvenile ribbing. “Hey, now! The only Captain here is me.”

Emma cleared her throat and closed her eyes and the wind started whipping and more tendrils of sparkling magic floated toward the untouched field until suddenly half the corn stalks flattened themselves, revealing a perfect pumpkin-shaped maze pattern.

The kids all cheered – even the early teenage ones – and Emma just  _giggled_. They all bounded toward the closest entrance (Neal safely in Killian’s arms) and they spent a full hour trying to find their way to the other side before they realized that Emma had been magically changing the paths the whole time.

“Emmie! That’s not fair,” Roland pouted and Killian wagged his finger at her and Emma had honestly never felt so light in her entire life.

She poofed them all back to the house for some more apple cider and a pumpkin pie (made by her mother, of course – no magic in the world could save Emma’s lack of baking skills), and Emma put on the movie  _Hocus Pocus_  as the kids picked out the stencils for their carved pumpkins.

Neal was obviously too young to wield a “tiny sword” (as Killian called the carving implements) so he was perched on Killian’s lap, helping to scoop out the pumpkin guts and squawking as the little seeds stuck to his chubby arms.

Roland was old enough that he could scoop and do a little carving himself, but Emma made sure to closely supervise him (with Nicholas at her other side – another kid who was  _just young enough to be dangerous_ ). They chose simple designs and the look of joy as their masterpieces were coming together was nothing short of infectious.

The older kids picked more complex designs, Grace trying to make a witch flying in front of the moon. Killian choked on his pie when she showed him, the handle of the broomstick obviously resembling a whole  _different_  kind of appendage.

But Killian was a gentleman. “Beautiful work, Grace!”

That wasn’t the only uncomfortable moment, of course. Emma had thought she was safe picking out a children’s movie (a beloved one at that), until Roland tugged on the edge of her sweater.

“Emmie, what’s a  _virgin_?” he asked with such innocence in his gaze.

She froze for a good five seconds before ruffling his curly hair and deploying the most tried and true method of handling awkward questions: distraction. “Ooooh, who wants a pumpkin Reese cup?”

_Whew_.

Once their pumpkins were all finished they lined them up at Emma’s bay window, inserting a candle in each so they would glow once night fell.

“Who’s ready for a ride?” Emma asked, leading the kids to her front yard.

Neal had fallen asleep on Killian shoulder and Nicholas was already yawning, but the rest of them were brimming with excitement as Emma lifted up her arms and suddenly the earth was  _shaking_.

A train – a  _Hogwarts Express_  replica, to be exact – was barreling its way toward her house as if from nowhere, train tracks suddenly appearing down the side of the street, stretching across town.

“To enjoy the colors of the changing trees, right guys?” Emma asked, magicking open the door to the open car toward the back.

They all piled in and found seats at the edge of the car. Emma started the train and made sure to keep it slow – the wind was chilly, after all – and they watched as they passed all the familiar houses of Storybrooke, calling out when they saw other carved pumpkins or when they saw their friends and family.

The train wound around a turn and just past  _Tony’s_ , the swanky Italian restaurant that Granny _despised_  (their lasagna  _wasn’t_ frozen). The outdoor seating was full of people, laughing and drinking and enjoying the just-crisp-enough air. The patrons were understandably confused about the oncoming train, and among the gaping faces were her parents and Regina and Robin.

“Really, Emma? A train? You are such a child,” Regina called as they continued chugging along. But Regina obviously saw the delight on the faces of the children because her face softened and her grip seemed to tighten on Robin’s elbow in affection (while Robin whooped at his son).

Emma laughed and Killian adjusted her sleeping brother so he could cuddle up against her, taking her hand in his.

“Have you enjoyed your day, Swan? The children sure have.”

“Yeah, I have. It’s kind of been the best.”

She kissed him softly and the children all made gagging noises behind them, but Emma didn’t care. She’d never known such easy happiness, the freedom of childlike  _joy_.

When the train made it back to her house, they disembarked and lined up in the front yard, watching intently as the train faded in a glittering poof of smoke. With the train gone, Emma’s house was in full view, their jack-o-lanterns visible in her large window. With a flick of her wrist, they were lit and the kids were all pulling out their phones to take a picture (Instagram still existed in Storybrooke – but the kids were warned to never post anything  _magical_ , like the time Lily and her mom got in an argument and had a dragon battle on Third Street).

They stood there watching the glowing flames until the chill became too much and the whining started in (Ava was always first to complain). At that, they started making their way into the giant Victorian house – once so full of emptiness and  _evil_ , but now replaced with joy and  _love_.

Granny’s To-Go was waiting on the kitchen table for them, so the kids dove right in, not even bothering to get plates. Or silverware. Killian scrambled to at least get napkins under their greasy piles of fries, knowing how much Emma loved the new kitchen table, hand carved by Marco.

Emma stood back, just basking in the moment, when Henry came up to her side.

“Thanks for a great day, mom.”

“Anything for you guys, kid.”


	10. The White Picket Fence Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little drabble based on Emma asking if Killian thought they could make it back to Storybrooke and have a “white picket fence life” (in 5x04). It’s a future fic, set not long after the whole Emma-is-the-Dark-One thing ends. I’d call it Captain Cobra Swan mostly, but there’s a lot of little friendships between the Hood-Mills-Jones-Swan clan.

**The White Picket Fence Life**

Regina’s mansion, ginormous as it was, was getting a little bit crowded. Henry pointed it out often, gently working into conversation almost every morning at breakfast how  _Emma’s house_  had a better dining room and  _Emma’s house_  had more spacious, warmly painted rooms and  _Emma’s house_  had softer lighting and far fewer apples.

But Emma didn’t  _want_  her house. Despite not actually being able to  _see_  the Dark-One-spirit-with-Rumplestiltskin’s-face anymore, she could still  _feel_  him, could still recall the moments she listened to him, let him manipulate her into committing unspeakable crimes. No, that house was a reminder of how good intentions are  _shit_  when it comes to consequences, because my  _god_  has she been paying the price for what seemed at the time like a selfless act of heroism.

She saved everyone and lost herself.

So when it was all over, when she could go back to her Storybrooke life, she  _couldn’t_  live in that house. She couldn’t live in her parents’ either – her son was getting to old to share the loft with her, and Neal was going to need his own space eventually, anyway. So Emma wound up living in the East wing of her former nemesis/current coparent (and possibly friend?)’s house. With her boyfriend. And the son they all kind of somewhat shared.

Breakfasts were actually nice when Henry wasn’t pressuring her to leave (with good intentions, of course; the kid wasn’t pushing her away, thank God). It was nice to sit at a table with so many people, decked out in pajamas instead of leather or lace, passing biscuits instead of judgments. Robin and Roland were a level of adorable Emma had never experienced before. The morning Robin used Roland’s eggs and bacon to reenact Romeo & Juliet Emma about cried with laughter. It felt  _good_. Even when Regina scowled at spilled ketchup and even when Henry grumbled that one of his mothers was being a little too touchy with her boyfriend (usually Emma and she  _wasn’t_ sorry).

Henry was  _right_. Emma did need her own space. But she couldn’t bring herself to reenter  _that_ space.

It was a Wednesday morning in the second week of her living at the Mills-Hood household when Killian asked Emma to take a walk. She didn’t have to be at the station until that afternoon – she and her father were splitting shifts now so they could each get more down time – so she agreed to a stroll with her beloved. It was crisp outside and the sunshine was streaming through the trees in such a way that it felt a little like a fairy tale – and not the kind that got you tangled in darkness and almost killing your friends.

“Well, love, how are you feeling today?” Killian asked, running his thumb across hers lovingly, their entangled fingers swinging gently as they strode down the sidewalk. He asked her the same thing every day, not in a  _why-aren’t-you-normal-again-already_ way, but with genuine concern for her healing process (it was a slow one, and he respected that).

“I’m OK,” Emma said, smiling up at him.

His smile faltered for a moment, as if he was contemplating what to say next, as if maybe this “aimless walk” was a little more calculated than Emma had thought.

That’s when she realized exactly what street they were on and which house was just a football field away.

“Killian!” she shrieked, yanking her hand from his and turning back toward Regina’s with fury. Her face was red and her hands were shaking and she was more angry at the stupid pirate than she’d probably ever been in her life and –

“Swan, please. Just hear me out!” Killian had caught up to her easily, hooking her arm to turn her back toward him (with as little impact as possible, the considerate bastard).

“You  _know_  I don’t want to see that place. Why would you bring me here?”

“Because, Emma. I made you a promise. I would never stop fighting for you. For us. I promised we’d get back to Storybrooke, have a white picket fence life. And even the  _you_  ensconced in darkness remembered that. You still valued  _it_  and  _me_  and  _Henry_. You wanted us to be a family even in your darkest moments and we wanted to be _your_  family unconditionally. I know you’ve done horrible things in that house, Emma, but my worst deeds have been done aboard the Jolly Roger and you  _know_  the value I have for her. Because aboard her I  _changed_.”

He stepped closer to Emma, bringing his fingers up to caress her face and comb through her windswept hair. Her eyes were softening, her rage steadily dissipating.

“When I look at this house, I think of the good things. I think of the possible  _future_  . Because I can see one with you. A  _happy one_. Please, love. As much as I adore my midnight snacks with the thief and playing cops and robbers with Roland, I think it’s time we had our own space.” His eyes flashed for a moment, his eyebrows quirking upward. “And you  _know_  the lad agrees.”

He was right. That damn idiotic pirate was  _always_  right, always looking out for her, always entirely committed to her and  _them_.

(Just like she was committed to him, though admittedly in a quieter fashion.)

The two of them walked back to Regina’s house nestled tightly together, parting with a kiss at the front door as Killian went to pack and Emma went to give Regina the news.

The three of them moved out the next morning after one last breakfast all together. Roland whined that he’d miss his Uncle Killy and Aunt Emma (no matter how many times Regina tried to correct him on the family tree), and Emma swore she saw Killian and Robin fist bump before Killian carried the last of the bags on his hook out to Emma’s car.

The drive was short and Emma was nervous when the menacingly large white house came into view.

“It’s OK, mom,” Henry called from the back seat, reaching his arm around to pat Emma’s shoulder.

“We’re here for you, love,” Killian agreed, placing his hook over Henry’s hand.

Emma looked into the excited, ever-hopeful eyes of her two favorite men and knew that they could handle whatever was to come.

Together.

(They’d survived the darkness; surely they could handle the white picket fence life.)


	11. Emma Swan, Queen of Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was a follower appreciation fic for vividpixie on tumblr (I'm charmingturkeysandwich) and it was funny/fluffy enough that I figured I should share here, too (we need some positive after that pain last night)! Anyway, this is an AU and the dialogue prompt was "don't make me say I miss you."

It all started in the absolutely most ridiculous way possible: a fucking Facebook quiz.

(OK so maybe it started long before that, years even. Maybe it started that first day, the not-quite- _meet-cute_ when Emma was forced to arrest Killian when all he was doing was standing up for his _mate_. Maybe it started when they compared tattoos at the precinct or the day he took Henry for ice cream when she found out about Graham’s aneurysm. Maybe it started the first time he brought her soup when she was sick or the time she bought him that fancy telescope so he could watch the stars on the edge of the sea.)

OK, so _when it started_ was sort of a nebulous concept, but the point was this: Emma Swan had never fancied herself a person with a soulmate, until one day, bored at the Sheriff station, she clicked on that _stupid_ link her friend Mary Margaret had shared: _Who’s Your True Love_? Mary Margaret had, of course, been matched with her dreamy husband David, a man who could very well put Prince Charming to shame in just about every category except _possession of an actual castle_. And Emma knew these stupid things were rigged and basically just showed you who you interact with most often on the dumb site, but out of some weird, dark, confused _compulsion_ , she clicked it and her heart actually leapt in her chest when those all-too-familiar stormy blue eyes were staring back at her through the screen, the smirk on his lips burning through to her soul even though it was his expression in literally every picture he’d ever uploaded to the whole fucking internet.

It felt like he could read her thoughts, like he kind of already knew.

_Emma Swan, your True Love is: Killian Jones!_

The computer was mocking her – she swore she could hear it _snicker_ – as her jaw dropped and her eyes shot down to the floor, her cheeks flushed a red deeper than the wine she so desperately needed at this very unsettling moment in her life.

Holy shit. She really did think he might be her True Love.

No. Fuck that. True love didn’t exist. She’d thought it did, once upon a time, back when she thought she’d found a home with an orphan just as lost as her. But then he’d betrayed her. It was admittedly by accident, but it didn’t change the prison sentence or the whole _giving birth while chained to a hospital bed_ thing, and god forbid if she hadn’t been cell mates with Mary Margaret she might have given up that baby, may never have believed she could be a mother. But she’d kept him, Henry, the only real love in her life. He might have been the product of her greatest heartbreak, but he was the best damn thing that ever happened to her. So she couldn’t hate Neal forever. Not really.

But she’d _sworn_ never to believe in love again. Which must be why she’d spent so long in denial about Killian. She denied it was _love_ when he put her to bed after she’d drank that whole fifth of tequila. She denied it was love when they danced at New Year’s Ball, twirling like two characters from a modern day fairy tale. She even denied it was love when he sold his entire goddamn boat, a vessel he’d happily lived on for _years,_ just to help her pay the hospital bills from that time Henry got scarlet fever and almost, _almost_ never woke up again.

But it looked like her capacity to deny had finally run out because holy fucking _shit_ she knew she loved Killian Jones.

The computer was still snickering at her and she was just about to pick up her stapler and bash it through the ancient machine’s half-blurry screen when she realized the chuckle was coming from _behind_ her.

“Didn’t need Facebook to tell you _that_ one, mom,” Henry said, patting her shoulder like he was the parent and _she_ his child.

“Excuse me?”

Henry looked sternly at her – far too much wisdom in his 11 year-old eyes – shaking his head as the blush continued to rise on her cheeks. “ _Mom_. Please tell me you’re not just realizing this. Because if you are, then you’re literally the last person on the planet. Even Dopey realizes you two are bonkers for each other.”

Emma’s face went pale. “ _Bonkers_? Really, kid?”

“If only you could see the way you idiots look at each other. _Bonkers_ is 100% accurate.” Henry sauntered over to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water for each of them. “It’s about lunch time. Want me to call Ruby to deliver us some Granny’s?”

(His ability to change the subject when Emma was overwhelmed was uncanny. There’d never been a kid cooler than hers. _That_ was what was 100% accurate.)

And so he called and they ate their fried deliciousness (Emma was going to need to do some cardio _that_ night) and the day went on just the same as any other in sleepy little Storybrooke.

Except that every single second she was hyper aware of the fact she was in love with her very best friend in the world. And, if Henry’s spidey senses were accurate, he was probably (hopefully?) in love with her, too.

But here was the shitty part. Not that she’d broken her self-promise to never fall in love again, not that apparently everyone in the whole town knew about it _before she did_ (how embarrassing), and not even that she literally had no idea how to even _be_ in a relationship anymore after so many years without one. No, those were shitty- _ish_ parts. Those were minorly shitty things. Those were things you could laugh off with overuse of the poop emoji and a few episodes of Brooklyn 99.

The real, true, _shitty_ thing was that Killian Jones had recently – last week, to be exact – taken a job and _moved away from Storybrooke_. Three years he was in her and Henry’s everyday life, meeting them for meals and watching new episodes of Survivor and playing golf and teaming up with Dave to scare them at Halloween and smiling at her and brightening her whole damn existence and how the hell did she somehow not notice that her heart was completely tethered to his, probably since the day they met?

(The Counting Crows started singing in her head, _you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone_ and Emma made a mental note to go break every single cassette and CD of theirs she had because _how rude_.)

Finally the day was finished and Henry was in the dining room working on his homework and the dishes were done and the floors were swept and Emma was dead tired and confused and hating herself for being her own worst enemy (it was like that episode of _Boy Meets World_ that Henry loved so much. It was her own damn self that was behind that mask, murdering off her friends and making her life _suck_ ). Yeah, you could say she was wallowing. But what the hell was she supposed to do? Facebook should have given her a little kick in the ass a few weeks earlier and then everything would be OK.

(Yep, she’d moved on from blaming herself to blaming Facebook. That was more rational, right?)

Just when she was searching her Facebook mobile app to figure out how to uninstall the damn thing, a banner popped up on the top of her screen.

**Killian Jones** : Swan! My blasted internet provider has still not showed up. How does one live without wi-fi?

Emma could picture his outraged face, could see his playful smirk and sparking eyes as he typed furiously on his phone (probably playing Kwazy Kupcakes or some equally ridiculous game). And she _missed him_. Probably more than she’d ever missed anything or anyone.

**Emma Swan** : Oh, come on, Jones. As long as you have 4G, what does it matter? You’ll be happily crushing desserts all night.

**Killian Jones** : I ran out of lives already : (

**Emma Swan** : Typical.

Killian had read her message right away (thank god for iphones and _read_ receipts), but he didn’t respond right away. Even worse, those dreaded three little dots kept popping up and disappearing, like Killian was typing and deleting, typing and deleting.

God, what awful thing was he going to tell her? He’d probably run into an ex and gotten engaged or his job was going to move him further away or maybe he just didn’t want to be her friend anymore at all because what if he’d been pining all that time? And worse: what if he’d been _trying_ to get her attention, to win her affection, and she’d been in too much denial to even fucking notice.

The three little dots popped up and disappeared three more times before Emma kind of _snapped_.

**Emma Swan** : What’s wrong, Killian?

**Emma Swan** : I don’t think you’ve ever struggled this much for words since that time you drank all the rum and tried to play Scrabble with Henry.

This time there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation.

**Killian Jones** : Important words require several drafts, Swan! Let a man think.

**Emma Swan** : What does that mean?

**Killian Jones** : Ummm.

Emma’s heart dropped into her knees. He really _was_ going to say something terrible. He was about to break her heart. On the very day she realized she loved him, he was going to rip her to pieces. Just like she was worried he would (well, worried _someone_ would). And it wouldn’t even be his fault. Damn Facebook and damn Neal and damn her and – _ugh_ – just damn everything.

Emma stared at the little dots, tears practically welling in her eyes already, until she heard Henry call to her from the kitchen. “Mom! Do we have any macaroni? I need some for my Little Brothers project with Roland!”

She closed her phone and threw it on the couch (the screen facing down, of course), stalking off to the kitchen to help Henry to reach the pasta. Henry was a _perceptive lad_ , as Killian always said, and it was fairly obvious he knew his mother was upset. But, once again, he knew her well enough not to push. Not _yet_.

(At least she’d have him to go buy her ice cream after Killian said whatever he was going to, whatever would break her heart.)

She lingered in the kitchen, making small talk with Henry about the macaroni frame project and about Roland (Mary Margaret’s step-step-brother who happened to be about 30 years younger than her – no that wasn’t weird at all), until Henry finally gave her a calm smile and bid her goodnight. “Stop stalling, mom.”

“How did you – ?”

“Stop. Stalling.”

Emma shook her head and walked back to her phone, cringing as she flipped it over. Three new messages from Killian Jones.

**Killian Jones** : I hate this stupid town, Emma. I hate it. And that’s confusing because it’s perfectly lovable. The shops are quaint and the beach is well-kept and I’ve already found a coffee shop that truly appreciates a bold flavor and doesn’t scold me for tipping my flask into my mug and the men at the docks are kind fellows and the weather is mild and my apartment is more than tolerable but I don’t want to be here even a little bit, Swan.

**Killian Jones** : I know the job is better than the one I had at Storybrooke Harbor and I know this could lead me to better opportunities in the world and I could travel and get promoted, but, you see, I just don’t want to.

**Killian Jones** : Not alone, anyway. Or, not exactly. I mean to say that the town in which I live and my place of employment and who serves me my coffee… those things don’t matter as much as something else.

Emma sat motionless on the couch, flashing back to that one psychology class she took, remembering the three reflexes that animals and people have: fight, flight, or freeze. And, yeah, it seemed she was currently experiencing that _last_ one. She was usually a runner, but right now she didn’t want to run or avoid or deny.

But she was still too scared to take the leap, to say what Facebook told her she’d been missing all along.

Finally, the sensation returned to her fingers and her brain reconnected to her body and she managed to type out the most cowardly message she could muster.

**Emma Swan** : What are you saying?

The dialogue bubbles popped up and disappeared a few times and Emma just stared, ashamed at her own inability to just _confess_.

**Killian Jones** : Don’t make me say I miss you.

**Killian Jones** : And I love you.

**Killian Jones** : And I wish I wasn’t saying this over a text message, but I’m a coward and I know you don’t always take things so well, and I couldn’t stand the sound of your voice or the look in your eyes if you were to reject me. Even though your boy called me a few words slightly stronger than -coward- when I didn’t tell you before I left. I thought you might not feel the same and I thought I was doing the valiant thing in letting you go.

(Emma’s face was running with tears, her mascara probably dripping down her face like a clown. But _he loved her_ and she didn’t care about much else.)

**Killian Jones** : I thought I could live without you but I can’t. Please tell me I don’t have to.

It kicked in again. Fight. Flight. Freeze.

And this time she would _fight_.

Emma tapped on his name and the little phone icon and it was less than one ring before Killian answered his phone. “Swan?”

(He was breathless, probably terrified, and she tried to steady her own voice with the absolute sincerity of his confession, with the knowledge that she wasn’t about to be rejected.)

“Jones. We’re idiots. And I love you. Please come home?”

Emma pretended she couldn’t hear Henry cheering from the other room, pretended she wasn’t bawling like the day her boy had come screaming into the world in a prison infirmary, pretended she hadn’t just wasted three years of her life being anything other than the _incandescently happy_ that she felt the moment she heard Killian Jones’ voice say “I love you, too.”

Yes, there would always be things Emma Swan was capable of denying. But her love for Killian Jones was no longer one of them.


	12. I Told You So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I had a one night stand with you months ago and never thought I would see you again but ooooops here you are at the same party I’ve brought my son to and why are you messaging me from across the room? AU in which Emma and Regina are friends and Killian is Regina’s brother.

It had been a while since she’d properly berated herself for her ridiculous decision to sleep with her best friend’s older brother. Mostly because these days she didn’t let herself think about it much. No, she didn’t think about the way his unruly hair lay across his forehead in the early morning sun. She didn’t dream of his soft touches or his lilting accent and especially not the goofy grin that lit up his entire face as she’d dropped her bra and crawled over him in his oversize kitschy anchor-patterned bed. No, it never even crossed her mind. 

(Good thing she was better at detecting lies than telling them or her police career would be in serious danger.)

Yeah, that one (glorious, mind-blowing, Earth-shattering, hot as  _fuck_ ) night so many months before  _might_  still cross her mind every now and again, but at least the star of those memories never crossed her path anymore. She was pretty great at avoidance, after all. 

Except when her son agreed to birthday parties without her direct permission. 

Henry was a good kid – the  _best_  kid – so she could hardly be mad at him for what amounted to an innocent error of communication, but that slight oversight on the part of her wonderful 11 year-old boy was what had landed her in the company of one Killian Jones, a man whose name she’d screamed out several times across the span of a few of the most pleasurable hours of her life, and whose eyes she could no longer look into without turning a shade of purple that one could only classify as  _ ~~eggplant~~  humiliation_.

“Mom, why does Killian keep smirking at you?” Henry asked, sensing his mother’s annoyance as she shook her head toward the sherbet punch.

“I’m sure he’s looking at someone else,” Emma responded simply (oh, her capacity for  _denial_ ). 

Henry rolled his eyes and marched back toward the snack table, stocking up on cheese curls and chatting with Regina – his very favorite babysitter, his mom’s best friend, and the very last person Emma would ever want to recognize any weird energy between her and Killian. Regina and Killian were half-siblings, after all, and Emma had been directly warned by Regina long ago to avoid her  _manwhore_  of a brother no matter how many accented innuendos he threw her direction. She’d heeded that warning for years –  _years_  – only to fall into his trap after a few too many tequila shots, a round of karaoke (80s classics, of course), and a brief little spat with Regina that started with a comment about Emma’s (lack of) education and ended with Emma flying over the edge into  _fine, bitch, I’m going to fuck your brother_  territory.

Not that she’d declared that out loud or anything. Or that she even meant it. But Killian had made her smile and laugh and feel more carefree than she had in  _months_  (around adults, anyway – she always felt great in the Emma-and-Henry bubble).

So before she could talk herself out of it she’d fallen into bed with the forbidden half-brother, and all at once realized she’d accidentally fallen half in love with him along the way.

So, yeah. She’d run. Far and fast and absolutely forever. She wasn’t falling into that  _trap_  again.

“It’s definitely you he’s looking at, mom. What did you do?” Henry asked, head tilted in disapproval. 

Henry liked Killian. Then again what kid  _wouldn’t_  like a man with the spirit of a teenager and the attitude of a pirate? And Emma  _loved_  that Henry liked him. He was  _good_  with him. They sailed together. They were  _friends._

But of  _course_  her kid was siding with him. 

“What makes you think  _I_  did something? Maybe he’s just trying to get our attention.” Emma tried to keep the defensive tone out of her response, but it was at least an 85% failure. 

“Well then let’s give it to him.” Henry tugged at Emma’s hand and before she had time to finish chewing the onion ring she’d popped into her mouth, she was standing face to face with the British bastard with the shit-eating grin. 

“Hello, lad! And hello to the lad’s beautiful mother. How are the Swans this evening?” Killian asked, his eyebrow quirking high into the air. 

True to form, Emma didn’t make eye contact, just stuttered a “hi, Killian” and looked back at Henry. Her face flushed and her hands shook and she was using at least three quarters of her energy on not spontaneously combusting with awkward because it was bad enough that she’d had a secret one night stand with her best friend’s brother (the only one night stand she’d ever even  _had_ , mind you), but to know there were probably very real feelings beneath the tinglings of arousal was far, far worse. 

Henry wasn’t oblivious to the weirdness emanating from his mother. He was looking between the two of them like they were kids on the playground with not-so-subtle crushes on one another, and yeah it might be true, but Emma was not looking for anything serious, was not looking for anything that might jeopardize her sanity or her family or her very fragile heart, so she steeled herself and looked Killian dead in the eye like a goddamn adult and started a conversation about arguably the least sexy topic on the planet (other than boils and leprosy) –  _taxes_. 

Emma babbled about 1040s and accountants and credit for student loan interest and Killian just nodded politely, knowing damn well what she was doing. 

Henry huffed in annoyance at their dull grown-up speak and flitted back across the room to Regina, who was happily teaching the birthday boy, her stepson Roland, how to play skee-ball. 

And of course Killian took full advantage of their relative alone-ness. “So, love, it’s been a while. I don’t believe I’ve seen that this beautiful face since I fell asleep between your lovely breasts after – ” 

“Yes, Killian, I’m aware what transpired the last time we saw each other. But if we could keep that between ourselves instead of broadcasting it to your entire family, I’d really appreciate it.” She cut him off without making eye contact, her hushed tone a mixture of embarrassed and  _accusatory_.

“Well you haven’t answered my calls or texts or IMs. I thought about asking Mary Margaret to help me train a bird to send you a message, but god knows what you’d do to the poor bird when it arrived on your windowsill, so I thought better of it. Seriously, Emma, I thought we had a good night. Why are you shutting me out?” 

“I’m not. I’m just… busy. It was a one-time thing, OK. Just let it go.” 

“As you wish,  _Elsa_.” No one had probably ever sounded quite so annoyed while making a Disney reference before, but it seemed she’d finally pissed him off enough that he might leave it all alone. Which was terrible and evil and just downright  _wrong_  of her, but she hadn’t been prepared for this level of confrontation at a damn 6 year-old’s birthday party and she just needed a minute to gather her thoughts and rein in her feelings and just figure out how to operate like a normal human being with that infuriatingly attractive man in the same room. 

She stalked off, sparking up conversation with every person she saw who  _hadn’t_  seen her naked, but sometime between the cake-cutting and the piñata the cell phone in her pocket started tinkling with new messages. Excusing herself from a very annoying  _Mommy and Me_  themed conversation with two new moms, Emma ducked into the bathroom and locked the door, combing her fingers through her long hair while she checked her messages. 

Killian Jones:  _1 attachment_. 

Rolling her eyes at herself in the vanity mirror, Emma tapped on the message and was greeted with an image of  _herself_  nodding politely as Rory described the texture of her son’s most recent spit-up.

He’d captioned it:  _This week on the Real Housewives of Storybrooke, Emma Swan plots murder_.

Against her own will, she smiled. That man was always great at diffusing tension, at making her smile and laugh and forget that the world could royally fucking suck sometimes.

(And now that she knew he could make her feel a whole  _different_  kind of amazing, well it was hard to justify her continued efforts to run far away.) 

She shouldn’t engage him. She shouldn’t encourage him. She just…  _shouldn’t_.

And yet she found herself typing back.

_I’d get away with it and you know it._

She locked the phone’s screen and rubbed some fruity lotion over her arms before quickly returning to the party. Regina, Henry, Roland, and Robin came over to ask for her help carrying gifts to the car, but she caught a glimpse of Killian out of the corner of her eye, his goofy grin beaming as he tapped away on his phone.

God, she’d missed that smile.

The next hour passed quickly, hauling gifts, un-decorating the arcade, saying her goodbyes to the people she’d come to see as family. Killian had caught her eye a few times, but he hadn’t approached her, hadn’t engaged with her – he mostly just smirked and went about it own business.

(No, she wasn’t disappointed. After all, it was what she wanted.) 

Almost everything was put away when Henry approached her, two cups of punch in his hands. “We need to finish this so we can wash the pitcher. Plus, you look thirsty.”

“Thanks, kid.” She smiled and slowly sipped at the sugary drink, finally taking a moment to look at her phone.

Killian Jones:  _6 new attachments_.

Her face flushed as she opened the conversation, all hopes of his  _letting it go_  essentially dashed as she scrolled through the photos – each featuring  _her_ , and each paired with a silly caption.

The first was a picture of her lifting several large boxes.

_Who knew Hercules was actually a woman?_

Then there was a picture of her rolling her eyes at Regina’s Uncle Gold.

_Ever so tactful, Swan_.

 A picture of her and Henry laughing made her giggle aloud.

  _The boy is obviously the comedian of the family_.

 Killian had captured a brief spat between Emma and Regina over the best way to store the remaining cake.

  _#truefriendship_

In possibly the silliest of Killian’s somewhat-stalkery-but-still-impossibly-cute photo session, there was a selfie of Killian’s blinding smile, Emma standing off in the distance pulling a Happy Birthday banner off the wall.

_A photo summary of the quality time I’ve spent with my favorite lass in the last three months._

Emma cringed at that a bit, appreciating his ability to deliver harsh truths through humor.

But the last photo was really the kick in the gut. Unlike the others, it wasn’t a photo he’d taken today. No, this was one that had probably been sitting dormant in his phone for god knows how long, from back before she fucked up their whole friendship when she’d fucked him. Henry had taken this picture – they’d gone out for frozen yogurt after one of Emma’s bigger arrests, and the two  _very mature adults_  were balancing gummy worms on their upper lips like multi-colored mustaches.

 Killian had been such an integral part of her life – of  _their_  lives – and she’d let all that go for what, because she was too embarrassed to tell her best friend she’d fallen for her brother? Because that’s what had happened.  _That’s_  how she ended up in his bed, eyes rolled in the back of her head, clothes strewn about the apartment like a damn tornado had gone through. She’d insisted to herself that it was a fluke, an act of revenge, a  _one time thing_ , but would a two-fer really be so bad?

(Or a long weekend or maybe a three-month fling or perhaps maybe even a happily ever after.  _Maybe_.)

Regina unceremoniously nudged her out of her reverie with a swift elbow to the ribs. “Oh for god’s sake, Emma, how much of the yearning looks and doey eyes am I supposed to endure in one damn day?”

Emma stood slack-jawed, her eyes searching for Henry’s or Mary Margaret’s or anyone’s, really, to get her out of this incredibly awkward situation. “Uh, what?”

“No one here is  _blind_ , you know. I’ve been aware for probably the last year or so that my brother is head over heels for you, but I’d hoped it was a one-sided affection. Judging by the look on your stupid face, I’m guessing it’s anything but. So do me a favor and just go be gross somewhere else? I’ll take Henry for the night so long as you promise to never, ever,  _ever_  tell me what you used that free time for. Got it?”

_Shit_. This was it: the moment that made this whole situation real or made it go away forever. She was  _so_  close to telling Regina she was crazy, to telling her that there was absolutely no part of her who wanted anything romantic with Killian Jones. But then she caught his bright blue eyes and watched the adorable furrow of his brow, the glow of his subtle blush, the crinkles of his eyes and dimples of his cheeks and holy fucking  _shit_  – she wanted nothing more than to stare at that man until the world went up in flames.

(Well, she admittedly wanted to do more than stare, but that was beside the point.)

“Are you sure about this, Regina? You’re the one who told me to stay far away.”

She shook her head. “I told you to keep away from my manwhore brother. That guy is long gone since I’ve introduced him to you. So while I’m still not exactly  _joyous_  about it, I could do worse for a sister-in-law.”

“Whoa, whoa. Don’t get ahead of yourself there,” Emma cautioned, suddenly fearful all over again of how these things can really blow up in your face. (Love could be the  _worst_.)

“Mark my words. You won’t stay  _Miss Swan_  for very long, sheriff,” Regina warned with a roll of her eyes, Emma understanding immediately that this was the closest thing to a  _blessing_  she’d ever get from her best friend.

–

(Regina was Matron of Honor at the wedding two years later.)

(Her speech at the reception was the most concise in all of history. Four simple words:  _I told you so_.)


	13. Sunday Afternoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My boyfriend loves the movie Warrior and watches it every time it’s on TV (which is often) and I’m mostly cool with it since Jennifer Morrison co-stars and she’s just one of my favorite people ever. Well, the last time I caught a piece, there was a scene where her character took the phone to her husband, telling him his “boyfriend” was on the phone (it was his trainer). I got it I my head that it would be adorable if that scene were reimagined with CS, and it basically turned into a Captain Charming romcom/fluffy family drabble, so hope you enjoy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Captain Charming Friday!

Sunday afternoons were becoming Emma’s very favorite thing.

For years, Sundays were nothing but the dreaded last day of the weekend, the day of homework or housework or nursing a hangover. They were days spent very much alone (or _trying_ to be, in the case of the days in the group homes and foster families), and for most of her life, she thought that’s all she wanted. Solitude. Peace and quiet. Freedom from the stress and disappointment other people’s interference in her life all but guaranteed.

But not anymore. She didn’t remember the last day she was alone. Even more surprising, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d _wanted_ to be. No, Sundays now were full of family and friends and random fairy tale “cousins” and all manners of other weird relations, and Emma found that she didn’t mind it one bit.

It warmed her once-icy heart to think of how _at home_ she felt in her giant former-Dark-One-lair, but nothing compared to the absolute bursting of joy that threatened to crack her chest open, seeing her boys just as happy as herself.

Killian had taken to this world in stride (he’d lived _centuries_ – was she really surprised he could adapt to a land without magic when he’d so expertly adapted to a realm where time doesn’t exist?). Killian spent his mornings rebuilding _cars_ (“Don’t act like magic doesn’t exist when these metal contraptions exist, Swan”) and his afternoons playing sports with Henry. And Henry – he was enjoying a life any Marvel fanboy would be jealous of: listening to the (true) stories of the galaxy’s greatest heroes by night and writing it all down by day (and publishing it in the form of a graphic novel called _Once Upon a Time_ , which was receiving fame and critical acclaim in the _real world,_ thank you very much).

This particular Sunday wasn’t much different than usual. That night they were having a family dinner at Emma and Killian’s – the Millses and Hoods and Charmings all in attendance – but for now, Killian was out in the driveway taking a look at the Bug’s engine (her poor, sweet car was getting old, after all), and Henry was taking a break from the Author life and playing basketball with Grace and Violet in the street.

When the phone rang, Emma assumed it would be her mother _once again_ offering to make another dessert, but, no, the voice on the other end of the phone was her out-of-breath father begging to speak with Hook.

“Calm down, dad, what’s wrong?”

“I just need to talk to him, Emma. Just… teleport him the phone or something.”

“I do have legs to _walk_ the phone to him, you know,” she responded, rolling her eyes and shuffling out her front door toward the driveway.

Her baggy sweatpants dragged on the grass as she walked across the yard and her hair was a tangled mess, but when Killian looked up from the insides of the Bug, you’d think she was descending the stairs in Camelot all over again for the way his eyes _shined_.

“Hey, babe!” she called, offering him the phone. “It’s your _boyfriend_.” Her teasing was light, happy – honestly, she was just elated the two of them were able to overcome their differences and be civil with each other, even if their bromance often made her slightly uncomfortable.

But when she passed Killian the phone he quirked and eyebrow and threw her a conspiratorial wink and _god_ what was running through that pirate’s mind now?

“Robin, mate!” he called into the phone jovially.

_Oh, that bastard was trying to break her daddy’s heart_.

Yep, she could hear David’s highly offended yelp through the phone even as she walked away from the little spectacle, chuckling to herself and rolling her eyes at what her life had become.

She’d closed the front door behind her and made it barely halfway back to the kitchen sink where she’d been attempting ~~procrastinating~~ dishwashing when her _cell phone_ rang.

_Now_ it was her mother.

“Go slap your boyfriend, please,” a very stern _Snow White_ demanded.

That earned a giggle. “Mom!”

“I’m going to be hearing about this all damn day, Emma. You know that your father is president of the Killian Jones Fanclub and now he’s all cranky that apparently Killian likes Robin better than him and he’s trying to make me teach him how to shoot a bow and arrow and I’m busy trying to spend time with your brother and _just fix it, Emma_.”

Yeah, dinner that night was guaranteed to be dramatic as all Hell, but _whatever_ if they’d survived _actual_ Hell they could live through the sitcom their lives had morphed into now that – miraculously – no one was trying to kill them.

Who ever would have thought?

Emma assured her mother she’d make Hook apologize and then, for good measure, asked her to bring a cake (distractions, right?).

 

And later that night as Emma, Regina, and Snow sat on the floor entertaining the babies and _being_ entertained by the childish antics of the men in their lives arguing over who was one another’s TBF ( _true best friend_ ), Emma realized that _happily ever after_ wasn’t a wedding or a ball or even a delivery room – no, it was just a Sunday dinner with friends and family and former enemies and a house bursting with so many kinds of love that even a fairy tale couldn’t truly capture it.


	14. But we've got our love to pay the bills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follower appreciation prompt by anon on tumblr: partners who own a coffee shop + "You and I" by Ingrid Michaelson. The good people of Storybrooke aren’t as excited by coffee as Emma had thought they would be and she and her business partner (yes business partner and nothing else) Killian Jones are worried they’ll have to close up. But Killian has some confessions that might soften the blow of their failure just a little bit.

“Howdy, Swan! How goes it?” Killian called, his voice booming over the tinkling bell of the front door and the soft 90s rock playing in the background of their anything-but-busy _Grounds for Change_ coffee shop.

His tone was excited and warm – as it _always_ was – and that shouldn’t be a bad thing. In fact it _wouldn’t_ be if Emma didn’t feel so damn guilty she was about to shatter his chipper mood for probably the fifteenth time that fiscal year.

Ugh. _Money_. Who knew it would be this fucking hard to _make some_. _Everyone needs coffee_ , she reasoned. _Everyone wants a nice place to hang out_. _Everyone likes me and Killian_ – the dream team since high school soccer (or _football_ , as the clinging-too-tightly-to-his-British-roots idiot would say) – _so of course they’re going to support us_.

Well they tried. Storybrooke was sweet and full of people who at least _thought_ they wanted to bolster local business. But after everyone got through with speculating on when the co-owners would “finally do it,” business dropped off significantly. Suddenly Emma’s heavenly caramel macchiatos and Killian’s homemade bear claws just weren’t quite as interesting and, well, profits sort of… _poofed_ away.

They’d been doing their best to drum up business. Open mic nights, daily drink specials, even lower cut shirts on both her _and_ Killian. But nothing was really working. No, their pet project, the thing they’d been dreaming/joking about doing ever since their daily excursions for sub-par gas station coffee between second and third periods was all but dead.

“Swan? Anyone in there?” She’d been so busy dreading facing Killian that she hadn’t noticed he was already standing right fucking beside her, his stupid puppy dog eyes shining and his slightly mocking grin sparkling like a goddamn cartoon.

“Uh, yeah. Just… thinking.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and tried to figure out exactly how to break it to him that the profit losses were just getting to be _too_ much and they really were going to have to pack it up. Or at the very least move to a town that moved a little faster and better appreciated/ _required_ some really great caffeine.

A gentle tug on her pony tail drew her out of her shame spiral to open her eyes, but she still just… _couldn’t_.

Killian was literally the best guy she knew. He was funny and happy and not only a _survivor_ but a _thriver_ in even the worst conditions. She wanted nothing more than to give him his happy ending – a chance to rise early on his ship and then come serve coffee to friends and neighbors, close up before dinner and just _sail away_. But no, like every other person in her life had done to her, she’d _failed_ him.

And failing him was basically the worst thing she could do in her life. Because he’d been there for everything. Every person who left her, every bad decision she made that ended up with disastrous consequences. He was even there for the _good_ decisions that still fucking blew up in her face. He never judged. He never scowled or lectured or threatened to give up. Not once. Not _ever_.

And she loved him for it. Loved him like a best friend, of course, but also in the _please drag me back to the kitchen and fuck me senseless_ way, too. And in the _Netflix and cuddle_ way and the _I’ll murder anyone who hurts you and get away with it via episodes of Rizzoli & Isles and Castle_ way and even the _I’d put on a white dress and push a bowling ball sized human out my hooha for you_ kind of way. She’d known it for years, probably long before they were _Captain Swan_ , co-captains of the Storybrooke Knights co-ed soccer team. But she never once acted on it, because _come on_. There was zero chance _that_ wouldn’t end in a nightmare.

So she swallowed her feelings and did absolutely everything she possibly could to make his life better.

(But was still failing.)

“Seems like some pretty dark thoughts based on your cranky crinkles,” he said after studying her face for an uncomfortably long amount of time (he always _could_ read her like an open book).

“Yeah. It’s… bad. Maybe grab your flask before you sit down with me?” She nodded toward the cash register which she _knew_ had an _unauthorized_ stash of rum under it, despite her insistence that they maintain an alcohol-free facility.

“Oh, Swan, that’s hardly necessary.” Killian chuckled and swung the closest chair around, straddling it and leaning his forearms and chin on the backrest of the chair. He was still being _annoyingly_ positive despite his clear view of the ledger in front of her, the one that any fool would realize was _bad news_ if they so much as glanced at her face while she looked at it. He _had_ to know what was coming, right? So why wasn’t he sad or upset or angry or for god’s sake at least _confused_ about why they couldn’t find success? The thoughts had been plaguing her probably every waking minute of the day and several times a night in the form of dreams in which lattes grew fangs and tried to vampire her as she cowered behind the cappuccino machine.

Killian was a hopeful guy, but this simply didn’t make sense.

“Ok, Jones, out with it. You find a new lady friend or something? You’re just a little too positive for this clearly _negative_ situation.”

“Negative? I’m not sure to what you’re referring.” He was playing dumb and she was about to fucking throat punch him when he must have recognized the genuine rage in her eyes and started to _spill_.

“It’s no secret we haven’t been doing well, Emma. I knew what was coming. So I made some calls. And Leroy’s offered to buy the place from us for $15,000 more than it’s worth. He wants to make a bar that isn’t also a family diner. Granny’s kicked him out for a full year, I think, so he’s fighting back. Or, well, he thinks he is. All we have to do is sign the papers, love.” As Killian finished his sentence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his (highly outdated) cell phone, offering her a blurry photo of a contract dated three days prior.

It was taking an embarrassing amount of time to process. She’d been worried for months and panicking for weeks and basically having a full-on meltdown the past few days, so sure she was that she and Killian were screwed, that they’d be admitting defeat and starting over. She’d been sick to her stomach about telling him the news, and here he’d been out doing the hero thing and saving both their asses and apparently letting her stew in her own worry while he was at it.

So she smacked him. Hard. “How couldn’t you tell me?!” She wailed as he used the stump of his left arm to rub at the right shoulder (where he’d undoubtedly have a bright red handprint).

“OK, yes, I might have deserved that. But I didn’t want you to get your hopes up as high as mine already were just in case he changed his mind or couldn’t put up the cash. But he went to the bank this morning and he’ll be approved, so we’re a go. We can move on to greater adventures and keep the coffee to ourselves.”

“I – what will we even do?” She didn’t exactly have a back-up plan when they’d bought this place. She just assumed it would work out. And she might have been smart and pretty good with people, but she hadn’t done the college thing and wasn’t the most skilled person in the world. Except at making delicious drinks. Ugh, she’d probably have to work for grumpy old Leroy just to make _rent_.

“Oh, I don’t know. I mostly don’t care, though, love. As long as I’m with you.” Killian rose from his chair and held out his hand, his eyes suddenly very soft and far more serious than she’d seen in _years_.

“But I’m not good at anything,” she insisted, still too much in shock to take his offered hand.

“I’d certainly disagree with that. And if you’d just take my hand I’ll show you.”

“Killian, what are you doing? I’m not in the mood for your weirdness.”

“Emma, we should be celebrating! Not moping.”

“I’ll mope if I fucking want to! I failed you, Killian. This was supposed to be your happy place, the thing that made life tolerable and wonderful and I couldn’t keep it alive. I’m thankful that you bailed us out and everything but I’m still mad at myself and nothing you say right now is going to change that.”

Killian dropped his hand and his expression went _blank_ and Emma felt so damn bad for ruining his mood like this, but sometime you’re just in a low place and no amount of cheerleading is going to help it. Sometimes you just have to grieve for the things you’ll never have.

There was an extensive moment of silence paired with an uncomfortable staring contest between the two of them, before Killian finally croaked out a response. “Emma, you’ve _never_ failed me. Not once. Not even a little bit. And this stupid building has never been my happy place, Emma Swan. _You_ are. I didn’t even _like_ coffee in high school. Did you know that? I just wanted an excuse to be with you when you _weren’t_ kicking footballs at my head. And as much as I wanted this business to work out, it was only so I could be around _you_ more often. You can’t tell me you honestly don’t know how I feel about you.”

“Well, yes. I’m your best friend and you’re mine, but…”

She had to be dreaming. Maybe she’d had a panic blackout when Killian had walked in the door and she’d fallen off her chair and hit the corner of her desk and was simply having a Seeley Booth-style coma dream where she was finally having her unrequited feelings, well, _requited_.

Killian reached his hand out once again, nodding his head toward the radio in the corner, the opening chords of “Wonderwall” drifting through the otherwise empty coffee shop.

“You are, of course. But you’re far more than that. You’re the love of my bloody life, you ridiculous, blind woman. Now as an apology for my keeping you out of the loop on selling this place, I’d like to dance with you to this stupid song you love so much. Aye?”

There was silence for probably way too long. But Killian remained patient, simply smiled and stared deep into her eyes. And for once she didn’t flinch away from the possibilities behind that gaze.

“It’s not a stupid song,” she finally responded, grasping his hand and shuffling behind him to the open space. He twirled her around somewhat awkwardly – she was certainly not as graceful as her namesake – before pulling her in close, wrapping his stump around her waist and tangling the fingers of his hand between hers.

“You would focus on that part of the conversation, wouldn’t you?” Killian laughed but kissed her forehead lovingly, sending little tingles down her face like she’d had a few too many beers or possibly a minor blow to the head.

“Well it’s _not_ a stupid song. I don’t stand for people who knock Oasis. Even when it’s the love of _my_ life doing so.” She could feel her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, so she tucked her head beneath his chin, her ear pressed so closely to his collarbone she could faintly hear the steady beat of his heart.

Of course it was at _that_ moment that the front door of their failure of a business came crashing open, a gruff “finally” being choked out before Emma could even lift her head.”

“Oh, goodie. Let the rumors begin!” Killian joked, squeezing her tighter.

“They won’t really be _rumors_ anymore, right?” Emma responded, adopting that hopeful tone Killian so easily spoke in.

“Of course not, Swan.”

As the song finished, they kept swaying – even though Blink 182’s “Dammit” wasn’t exactly slow-dance material – and Emma finally repeated her earlier question, the thing concerning her most. “So…. What will we do?”

“We could move to France for all I care. Or start driving around an ice cream truck. Ooooh! Or join the circus.. I’d love to train a monkey,” he laughed, tilting her chin so she was looking at him. “As long as I’m with you, well _that’s_ my happy ending.”

Emma smiled in return and finally, _finally_ lifted up on her toes and brushed her lips against his – understanding at last what _happily ever after_ might actually feel like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been posting one shots on tumblr (@charmingturkeysandwich) as part of a follower appreciation series, but this one just hit me in the feels with cute so I thought I'd share here also. I'm thinking of doing a follow up of their (ridiculous) post-coffee shop adventures, too.


	15. Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undercover detective AU where Emma needs to get information from Killian by pretending she’s nothing but a lost girl looking for a kindred spirit to chase the loneliness of the night away with. Mostly smuff. Definitely M.

We’re hell raising  
And **we don’t need saving**  
‘Cause there's no salvation for a bad girl  
We’re rock bottom  
But there ain’t no stopping  
‘Cause they don’t know nothing about love

 

Growing up a lost girl wasn’t _all_ bad. Sure, it wasn’t a happy thing by any means – Christmases without presents were exactly as depressing at eighteen years old as they were at _eight_ – but it had its benefits.

Life as an unwanted orphan had made Emma Swan _strong_. Nobody saved her but her, after all. And a life without attachments, well that gave her near superpowers of lie detection and behavior prediction; if you didn’t have people to sympathize with, to identify with, then you could actually think clearly and rationally, your judgment uninhibited by confusing things like _love_.

Her life took a _sharp_ turn when she turned 28, though. The lonely sad little girl turned Boston PD star detective was spending a lunch break scarfing down a grilled cheese while flipping through case notes when she received a frantic phone call from none other than _her biological mother_.

Turns out Emma had been kidnapped by her mother’s jealous stepmother, and her parents and little brothers Henry and Neal (oh the irony of _that_ name) had been searching for her for decades, only to happen upon her through a few lucky breaks at an orphanage and a very persistent PI.

She’d met them all the next day, their happy tears and tight embraces confusing her all to hell. She was a _lost girl_. A force to be reckoned with. A badass cop without a weakness.

Her life from there became… different. So much _better_ and yet so much _worse_. She’d never been so happy in her life. Mostly because she’d never really been happy at all. But playing videogames with her brothers and cooking with her mom and teaching her dad to shoot guns – she was going home to her once-sparse, now picture-lined little apartment with sore cheek muscles from the sheer amount of _smiling_ she was experiencing. And at first she was almost ashamed of it. Realistically she knew that was nuts. Happiness was not a bad thing and love was _not_ weakness (no matter what her psycho foster mom Cora had said), but she could see her job _suffering_. Perps that had eyes like her mom or floppy hair like her brother or a penchant for hot chocolate with cinnamon instead of coffee (a habit of her whole family) – well suddenly they were a little more human.

And a little more difficult to look at like stick figures in a comic book, easily categorized and manipulated.

(Look, Dr. Hopper, Emma Swan isn’t a sociopath, after all!)

It was a rough first four years of balancing the lost girl past with the big happy family present (and future), but one June afternoon in her 32nd year, everything finally fell into place.

She was an excellent detective – unparalleled even since she’d “gone soft” (actual quote by her former partner Graham before he transferred to a small town in Maine) – but she’d never gotten to go undercover.

Until now.

Now was the moment when her two lives collided, when her 28-year run as Queen of the Orphans – owner of the shiny emerald _I give zero fucks_ scepter – finally paid off. Hopefully.

You see, Emma Swan 1.0 was damaged and sad and not so great with that whole “emotion” thing. So she fucked instead of made love (God, who invented that phrase anyway?), used people and bolted, didn’t give a second thought to a guy from a bar that was nothing but a means to scratch an itch (she was so much more for forking than spooning).

And Emma Swan 2.0 knew that had been an empty life. It was hollow and dark and a poor excuse for an existence, really, but it was all about her _walls_. If you had to choose between a thousand papercuts and risking a knife to the heart, you pick the paper cuts, right? It had been about _survival_.

But Emma Swan 2.5 (or something?) was a perfect mix of the two. She could pull off the behaviors of Lost Girl Emma while keeping a healthy guard on her heart and mind.

In other words, she could seduce the mark – the suspected criminal – without letting his piercing blue eyes or _how-would-that-feel-scratching-my-thighs_ scruff distracting her from her _job_. She could detect all his lies while pulling off all of her own, and all of the sudden her misery wouldn’t be for _nothing_. She’d catch the bad guy, get a few medals, and never _ever_ tell Mommy and Daddy exactly how she went about obtaining the necessary information.

(Ever.)

Killian Jones was his name. It wasn’t one she’d ever heard and her phone kept autocorrecting it to Jillian and she’d started picturing a short fitness instructor rather than a _pirate_ (smuggler, whatever), until she’d finally received the surveillance videos and newspaper clippings.

Holy fucking _shit_. At least this was a job she’d enjoy _doing._

(Stop that right now, Emma Swan.)

No, she wasn’t actually going to fuck him. That would be “unprofessional” and she didn’t actually want to get some disease passed through bimbos and criminals all for a pretty face and a little bit of sexual frustration. But. Goddamn it if he wasn’t most tempting _don’t even think about it_ she’d ever laid eyes on.

Those were her thoughts as she sat in the dark bar, swirling cubes of ice around in her “scotch” (ginger ale), her eyes moving to the entrance as the leather clad walking fantasy swaggered to the bar.

His hair was haphazard and windblown; she could make out the color of his irises better than she could remember her own damn name. He was toned and grinning and _god_ why did he have to go an be a criminal? That man belonged on billboards in Times Square, not in _prison_.

Except, no. Prison it was, because even an ass like that doesn’t give someone a free pass to traffic drugs.

Emma gulped back the ginger ale, desperately wishing for the smooth burn of _anything_ that would take off the razor-sharp edge threatening to slice through her reputation (and sanity).

And just as quickly as she could slam the glass back on the worn wooden surface, the bartender was sliding another one toward her, completely unbidden.

“It’s from the gentleman at the jukebox, miss,” the woman declared with mild annoyance (jealousy?).

Guess her princess curls and second-skin red dress were working for her because she didn’t even have to make the first move.

_All right, detective. Time to ~~play~~ work._

The thing about men – especially ones that attractive – is that they were awfully predictable. They got what they wanted and they were used to a certain level of constant ogling and fawning. And no version of Emma was one to _pine_. Or beg. Or submit.

So she didn’t even glance toward his painfully attractive face, despite seeing clearly in the reflection of the napkin holder at her side that he was _smoldering_ at her over his shoulder from the corner of the room.

(They like the chase, you see.)

She spent the next three songs (all bass-thumping, bump-and-grinding, how-many-euphemisms-for-sex-can-we-make-in-three-point-five-minutes style) “transfixed” by the pattern of tiles on the floor, the melting ice in her never-touched drink, the manicure she’d specifically gotten done for this outing since she wasn’t much for the outer appearance thing when she had better things to spend her time on.

She could practically _hear_ the frustrated grumbling in his head. The man had probably never been ignored in his _life_ , especially considering the _groupies_ those drug runners often had crawling at their feet. It was only a matter of time before he’d approach her.

(And then brag about himself and probably his wealth and hopefully his side-dealings and if she was _really lucky_ , his accomplices. Yeah it was going to be easy.)

Except it wasn’t. He didn’t approach her despite the (metaphorical) smoke blasting out his ears every time he glanced her direction only to notice she’s still _not impressed_. Finally he seemed to get fed up with ignoring her ignoring him and he sat down at the bar just two stools away from her, his eyes flashing in her direction every few moments.

Now that he was closer, he was somehow even more impressive. Not because he was _hot_ – that was basically a _duh_ factor at this point – but because he seemed so _warm_. Hopeful. Expressive. So… not a slime ball.

Innocent until proven guilty, right? Maybe their leads had been wrong. He had the face of a man who fucked his way through Manhattan, yeah, but also the kind that coached his nephew’s soccer team and truly enjoyed the little foam art those fancy baristas crafted atop lattes.

The first time Emma truly let herself glance _at_ him (rather than using some kind of reflective surface to do it for her), he was _giggling_ , his face entirely consumed by the glow of his smart phone in front of him. She could make out a tiny trumpeting noise amidst the testosterone-fest pumping through he speakers, and little fireworks were bursting across the screen.

She shouldn’t have done it – it wasn’t necessarily in line with the damaged piece of ass she was trying to play – but the words fell out of her mouth before her Detective of the Year trophy could reach through the space-time continuum and smack her first.

“What are you playing?” she asked him, genuinely curious. She threw in a half-seductive smile for good measure – and a nice view of her shoved-together cleavage – as she leaned his direction, hoping to make some part of herself believe this was intentional on her part.

He seemed to blush for a moment, his eyes squinting with embarrassment, before he leaned her direction. “Erm, it’s Yahtzee. In app form. I just rolled my second Yahtzee of the game and my brother is going to be furious. He bet me a hundred bucks he’d win and there’s almost no chance now.”

Emma was tempted to ask if that brother had a son and if he coached his soccer team – Emma so enjoyed being on the money with her instincts – but she enjoyed catching criminals _more_.

“Seriously, dude, you’re playing on your phone in a _bar_? Sounds like something is wrong with you,” Emma chastised, swirling her finger in her drink before popping it into her mouth.

“Well the only interesting thing in this bar happens to be you, love, and as you’ve given no indication you were looking to _bond_ I had to resort to silly phone games. You’ve only yourself to blame.”

Ah, yes. Typical man. Blaming everyone else but themselves.

“ _Typical_ ,” she (accidentally) muttered aloud, thinking of the other foster kids in the group homes, the men in bars, the coworkers, the scumbags who’d ever let that old version of Emma down, who’d ever hurt her, used her, blamed her for their own bullshit.

(She couldn’t think of her dad or Henry or Neal, no, because she desperately wanted Killian to be the exception to the asshole rule, and thinking of the men in the _new_ Emma’s life would give her _hope_ that he could be.)

(And if there was anything worse than not getting a happy ending – it was giving someone false hope. That shit _hurt_. And brand new shiny emotionally stable as she might be, Emma Swan was still _not about to let herself get hurt_.)

“I’m guessing you’ve been bitten a time or two, ….?” Killian trailed off, his tilted head indicating he’d like her to finish the sentence with her name.

She’d had every intention of lying to him. Her “cover” name was going to be Elizabeth – a little because it was vague but mostly because she had a slight obsession with _Pirates of the Caribbean_ – but Emma was fairly common, too. And _god_ she wanted to hear her name in that accent.

“Emma. And yeah, you could say whatever sea of fish I’m swimming in must be full of piranhas. I’m not exactly bright and shiny as you can see.” Emma trained her face into a vulnerable, sad expression, finally taking a sip from the glass ~~Killian~~ the stranger she’d just met had sent her.

“Seem like my drink of choice is apropos then. Tequila for the dark and twisty Meredith Grey-esque Emma.”

“Do you seriously watch that stupid show? It’s _so_ unrealistic!”

“It’s unrealistic that I’d ever meet a woman as beautiful as you at this dive, and yet here we are.” He winked that time – so expressively he looked like a goddamn emoji – and Emma rolled her eyes.

It was going to be _work_ after all – trying to not be charmed by this ridiculous man.

This ridiculous _criminal_.

( _Alleged_ criminal.)

(Fuck.)

 

Emma softened a bit after that, just to keep conversation going. He kept flirting and she kept deflecting and it was a good rapport they had going. She kept steering the conversation to his possessions, his _friends_ , downplaying everything he said so he might try to one-up himself with something incriminating.

But there was just _nothing_. Unless you counted his brother Liam or his dear old mum back in England who was weirdly obsessed with the Obamas. There was his old dog, Duke, and his former career as a librarian (nope, that hadn’t been in his file, but she’d googled it and it was a _fact_ ). The man didn’t appear capable of smuggling a Pepsi into a movie theater let alone _illegal drugs_ across a country’s borders.

But it was her job to trap him, to figure him out, to break whatever stupid _I’m-hot-but-super-goofy_ routine he had going. Seriously, dressed as she was and playing the damaged bar bunny, she didn’t think he’d be playing it this _honest_ and _cute_ to try to win her special attentions. She was trying so hard to be the rock-bottom bad-girl, but it was almost like…

Almost like he knew she was a cop.

Like he was just faking it.

Like he was just like every other fucking man who’d ever charmed her and left her behind (here’s looking at you, _evil Neal_ ).

No. Killian Jones was a criminal. Her files said he was the kingpin and those were based on evidence which are fact and her stupid feelings and observations and little butterflies in her stupid constricted belly were _not_ going to negate that.

She was getting back to Killian’s house and she was going to find something to prove who he was and she was going to end this _shit_ before it turned sickly sweet and then sour, rotten, _dead_.

Whew. _Emotions_.

(Nope.)

Time to turn it up. Time for a classic: the Damsel in Distress routine.

Emma slumped down in her seat, her gaze defeated and her eyes sad. Of course white-knight-in-training Killian Jones noticed, because he was just that predictable (she told herself).

“Is everything OK, love? I know my jokes are somewhat dull, but I didn’t think they’d work you into a depression.”

“I’m sorry, Killian. Your jokes are good. Well, I mean they’re _ok_. I just got a text that bummed me out is all. I kind of just found out my boyfriend was cheating. He’s a total _ass_ but I have student debt out the ass and I can’t leave and I just… tonight was supposed to be an escape, you know? But I can’t seem to get away from it.”

_Take the bait take the bait take the bait_.

Killian’s (excessively attractive) lips turned up in a smile and his eyes crinkled and he finally, _finally_ shifted into the seat next to her and placed his own hand on hers. “Guess I’ll just have to distract you then, Emma.”

It. Was. _On_.

 

Two tequila shots and a handful of mostly-innocent touches later and Emma really _was_ on. On _him_ , that is. She’d complained of a sore shoulder (which was _true_ actually – swimming laps in the mornings was turning out to be a _bitch_ on her already exhausted body), so he’d offered a little massage, tapping his thighs to suggest she prop herself there for better access. She’d complied and proceeded to make little moany noises when he hit all the right places.

“A responsive one, are we?” he muttered gruffly, visibly holding himself back from pushing his body any closer to hers.

“Oh, if you only knew,” Emma teased, tossing a sultry glance over her shoulder.

“Perhaps I’d _like_ to know.”

“Only perhaps?” She fluttered her eyelashes as non-cartoonishly as possible, but she still felt moderately silly.

(And also _highly_ turned on, but that was so not the point.)

But instead of upping the flirting ante, Killian’s fingers dropped from her back to his sides, his voice dropping low and almost _sad_. “I can’t understand that git of a boyfriend you have, Emma. I know you’re stuck. I know – I mean I _don’t_ know. But I recognize you’re in a difficult situation. But you deserve to be worshipped, Emma,” he said, tilting her chin up so she was facing him. “I would worship you.”

She was a human fucking lie detector. It’s what she was best at. It’s what made her good at her job and what made her able to function in society without trust issues dripping out her _ass_ and you know what? This man, this inexplicable, adorable, hot as fuck _dork_ wasn’t telling a lie.

She needed to get to his house. For evidence, obviously.

(That’s how she’d justify her next sentence if anyone ever questioned her.)

“So worship me,” she whispered, scooting up his thighs so her right hip was pressed against his belly, her nose buried in his neck. “Take me home and make me forget.”

“As you wish,” he mumbled into her hair before sinking his fingers in her curled tresses, shifting her head back far enough so he could look at her – the kind of _looking_ that led to fucking and _loving_ and melting into a puddle of _goo_ and –

She surged forward and captured his lips in hers, his hot breath making her bottom lip tingle as it scraped over his teeth. The butterflies in her belly had shifted significantly _lower_ and there was warmth and near-throbbing between her legs as he grasped her thigh and opened wider, his tongue running languidly against hers as she _sighed_ into him.

Her breasts pressed against his chest, tingling in every spot that skin met skin ( _damn_ their low cut necklines all to _hell_ ), and her thighs fell slightly open, practically begging for some kind of friction despite the very public nature of their current setting.

Killian’s hands ran all over her legs, her arms, up across her breasts, before tilting her head to the side so he could suck on her neck. _Hard_.

She about came right there, his tongue lightly flicking all the places he couldn’t _possibly_ know were her most sensitive ( _she_ barely knew, for fuck’s sake). He was turning her into a writhing mess, an exhibitionist, a really fucking bad detective, and yet she didn’t _care_.

Every hormone in her body about _cried_ in relief when his hand returned to her thigh, brushing up higher and higher until it was beneath the hem of her very short, very tight dress – and suddenly she came back to herself (just a little).

“Easy, tiger,” she giggled, shamelessly rubbing her chest against his as she nuzzled his cheek. “The first part of that request was _take me home_.”

Killian fumbled around his hip, trying and failing to yank his wallet out of his pocket for the first five tries at least, before Emma reached down the front of her dress and tossed a twenty on the table.

“Emma! You’re supposed to let the gentleman pay.”

“And when I see one I will,” she whispered into his ear, nipping at his lobe before hopping off his lap and heading toward the door. Killian scrambled up, not even trying to hide the bulge in his pants as he shuffled toward her.

“Lucky for you, I won’t take offense to that. Even luckier, my place is closer than you think.” And with one quick swoop, Killian had Emma in his arms and over his shoulder, barely making it out the bar exist before he was reentering the building through another door.

_Shit._ This was _not_ the address they had listed for him.

_Stop thinking_.

Killian slapped her ass before sprinting up the stairs – somehow taking two at a time despite the added weight of her – and Emma tried not to find that painfully attractive.

(But it was.)

As soon as they were inside, he bolted toward what she assumed was his bedroom, not putting her on her feet until he crashed through the door and slammed it behind him. He switched on a small lamp next to his black sheeted bed and smiled at her like she owned his soul.

Usually that kind of intensity would scare her. Terrify her even. Especially considering the fact that she was probably better off faking drunk and passing out on the couch so she could case his apartment while he slept. Even if he wasn’t the big bag, he might have info on who _was_ – but something in his gaze made her feel powerful. Wanted. _Happy_.

She’d thought she could play the lost girl, but the truth was always going to be that she was lost. And now that she had her parents and brothers, the wound of _orphan_ had certainly been reduced to nothing but a faint scar. But that part of her that had been _abandoned_ at 17 years old, left to go to jail for a crime that wasn’t hers? That scared little girl inside of her who just wanted a home and trusted a man to _be_ that for her? That wound was still gaping open.

But Killian had the hands of a surgeon and she was dying to know what he could do with them.

Metaphorically and literally, if she were being quite honest.

Killian was still smiling like a fool, but his eyes were melting into something like _panic_ and Emma was suddenly feeling very guilty for her little ruse that wasn’t exactly a ruse. He felt like home and she should be running – she couldn’t afford to lose anything else in her heavily miserable life – but the only place she wanted to run was _into his arms_.

Cheesy, but true.

“All right, buddy, are you going to take this dress off me or do I have to do it myself?” She faked impatience – even though she really _was_ kind of impatient to have his hands on her – and his expression relaxed. He slowly walked toward her, staring her deep in the eyes in a way that should make her squirm but instead set every last nerve ending on fire. Her skin was tingling and her chest was swelling with desire and for a split second she worried she might be drugged because she’d never in her life felt something this strong.

That is, until he touched her. _Really_ touched her, that is, His fingers ghosted down her arms and around her waist, working up her back until the zipper was pinched between his thumb and fore finger. He rubbed his nose against hers before wrenching her lips open with his own, sliding his tongue against her lower lip and then her tongue, stroking it to the rhythm of the throbbing of her clit as he dragged the zipper down her back.

She shivered when his hand met her ass and he just held her tighter, comforting her and turning her on all at once. He kept his touches light as his tongue plundered her mouth, and she rocked into him, so impatient to strip him naked and lick him head to toe that she whined – actually fucking _whined_ – at his inability to get the fuck on with it.

He chuckled, reading her heightened desire and gently yanking on the straps of her dress. He drew them slowly over her shoulders, kissing every newly exposed piece of skin until the dress was bunched at her elbows. She was transfixed, watching his tongue lick circles around her freckles, heat spreading across her neck and down to her belly. Killian noticed, of course, and followed the spread of her _want_ , kissing across her collarbone and down her sternum. His lips brushed against her bra and without ceremony she reached around and plucked the clasp, tossing the garment into the dark corner of his bedroom. Her patience was quickly rewarded with his teeth tugging on her nipple, his tongue soothing the angry red marks just as quickly as they appeared.

It was like Emma wasn’t even a person anymore, just a mushy ball of nerves and hormones and incoherent moaning.

“God, Killian, can you _please_ hurry it up a little?” She begged – yes, _begged_ , one of those things she _never does_ – as he dragged his tongue across her chest to the neglected nipple, sucking _hard_ as he laughed at her state of desperation.

“So eager to have me inside you, love?”

“Yes, please!”

She might be insanely horny, but at least she’s also _polite_.

Killian released her breast and took the edge of her dress in his teeth, tugging it down the rest of her torso. It would have been incredibly sexy if it weren’t for exactly how _tight_ it was around her hips – AKA impossible to remove using one’s teeth alone – but rather than break the mood with laughing, Emma simply yanked it down with her (shaking) hands, immediately using them to shove him to the bed right after.

“I don’t do slow,” she growled, palming the tented region of his pants with her left hand while her right one shoved off his leather jacket and undid the very few clasped buttons on the shirt beneath.

His chest was toned – she could tell that much from the deep V in the shirt, but my _god_ the abs on this man. Either he did manual labor or he was a gym rat or he was a gift from the fucking gods because he was more perfectly sculpted than a damn Greek statue and entirely without her permission her tongue darted out to lick the ridges between each muscle. While her mouth was busy keeping Killian distracted, she quickly undid his pants and started to push them down his legs – only to be interrupted by the _new_ impatient one, Killian, who simply couldn’t wait the extra three seconds Emma would have taken to divest him of the dark jeans.

He sighed in relief as he was finally fully bare to her and she tried her damnedest not to smirk at his impressiveness, but of _course_ he noticed.

“See something you like, darling?”

She didn’t justify it with a verbal response; instead, she locked eyes with him, shimmied her underwear down her legs, and with absolutely zero finesse got on her knees above him and began to _stroke_.

His head fell back appreciatively and the space between her legs _ached_ to be filled, but there was a tiny part of her that just felt _good_ letting him watch her the way she was, letting him build her up and make her tingle and to just _be_. It didn’t have to be about scratching an itch or proving commitment or any of the long list of reasons to have sex with someone. No, it was just _nice_. Better than nice – it was fantastic and maddening and addicting and wonderful. But it was far more than a physical connection. It was something deeper, something spiritual, something humming under her skin like magic or science or one of those concepts that only exists in another fucking language. God, she didn’t know what it was except that it was good and that she’d deal with the fallout from this possibly catastrophic error in judgment in the morning.

Because right now she was just going to _let go_.

“Emma,” Killian groaned, seemingly unaware he was even speaking aloud, and she’d never been so glad in her life she’d given him her real name, because hearing it practically _sung_ to her, moaned to her, spoken like a plea or a prayer, was a memory she would never forget and never regret, no matter what came of this little… adventure.

Craving more of his delicious sounds, Emma eased her hands back up his body, bracing herself on his chest as she lowered her mouth down, down _down_ , until she was swirling her tongue around him, laving up and down with teasing little strokes before taking him fully in. He gasped as he brushed the back of her throat, grasping at her hair so tenderly Emma wanted to fucking _cry_. Because once upon a time this would have disgusted her, would have made her feel demeaned and used and _broken_ , but she felt nothing but warm and wanted as she sucked him. It was so different from any hit-it-and-quit-it experience she’d ever had – different even from the almost-loves – because she was receiving as much as she was giving (metaphorically for the moment, but she _knew_ it would be literal eventually).

In one night – a few hours, really – this man had reduced her to nothing but _feelings_ when that seems to have been the one thing she’d been running from her whole life without fail.

After a few more moments, another series of grunts and whines, Killian tugged on her hair and gasped at her to stop. “Please, love, not like this.”

“Then like what?” she teased, still licking at his hips and thighs with the barest pressure.

“Do you want – I mean, can you… Um, my bedside table. Get a – _god_ , can you stop that for one second so I can think?” he bellowed, clearly reduced to the same hormones and nerves as her.

And, yeah, that made her smile.

So she hopped off the bed and snagged the box she assumed he was trying to ask for, tossing it lightly onto his chest. “Looking for these?”

Killian ripped open the box and plucked out a condom, tossing the rest on the floor and flipping Emma over in the process. “God, yes. Do you want to – ”

“ _Please_ ,” Emma begged before his question was even out.

Killian ripped open the small packet and rolled it on, leaning down to kiss Emma breathless the second he was capable. His tongue dipped in and out of her mouth as he intermittently pressed little butterfly kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her _nose_ , and she would probably have thought it was weird as fuck before three hours ago, but somehow those little moments of non-sex intimacy are flooding her brain with chemicals she didn’t know existed (along with ridiculous thoughts of _forever_ ) and _god_ he was fucking her stupid before ever even _entering_ her.

But a few more whispered _pleases_ from Emma and he was lining himself up and pushing inside, slowly and reverently, his hands all over her and his eyes piercing into hers. It began lazily almost, just a steady drag, but once she wrapped her legs around his back all bets were _off_. His knees were planted between her own and he was fucking into her so hard she could hardly even get a coherent _moan_ out, trying and failing to keep up with his rhythm.

Some part of him seemed to come back to himself as she started to falter – she did remember him saying something earlier about a “gentleman taking care of his lady thoroughly” – and he slowed his pace significantly, switching the angle with each thrust, swirling his hips and pulling her closer, kissing at her neck and shoulder wherever he could.

“Killian, stop – unh – _teasing_ me,” Emma whined as his thrusts got shallower and shallower until he was barely dipping into her at all. He chuckled and snaked a hand to circle her clit, earning him another string of babbles that she hoped conveyed _approval_.

“How flexible are you, love?”

“Enough for just about anything you want.” She’d have laughed if he weren’t completely draining her of her sanity with his slow circles and gentle rocking.

But something in her expression made _him_ chuckle, so she figured he had the comic relief portion of the bedroom activities covered.

At that, he took each of her ankles in hand, lifting them so her legs were over his shoulders. Her hair must have been a damn mess at this point and there was no way her makeup had held up but Killian was still looking at her like she was pure fucking gold, so for once she threw all self-doubt out the window (yes, pretty people have self-doubt), and tugged at his neck to bring him down for a kiss.

With their mouths locked together, exploring and stroking and lavishing, Killian eased himself back inside her.

With this angle she felt so much _more_ and there was no way she was going to last much longer, so she mustered all of her focus to match his steady rhythm, one of her hands at his back and the other threaded through his floppy hair.

He was starting to stutter and the coil in her belly was so tight it nearly _hurt_ when their orgasms slammed into them together, the two of them rocking into each other slowly until they’d both come down from their high.

_This is it_ , she thought. _The moment the spell is broken_.

But it _wasn’t_. The tingling in her belly had never really gone away and the swell of heat in her chest only deepened as he looked into her eyes, his own sated and almost _silly_ with happiness.

He eased her legs back down and she whined a little at the soreness – guess she was going to need to up the yoga if the sex gymnastics were going to be a regular thing – and Killian kissed all over her body in silent apology.

“Stop it,” she mumbled, even though the attentions were certainly not _unwanted_. But what she wanted more was to curl up, to cuddle, to – _gasp!_ – spoon, and sleep the night away.

 

Of course, just as Killian began lightly snoring, her phone sounded from across the room and her _task_ and _job_ and _responsibility_ finally came flooding back to her.

God, fuck her fucking life.

 

But, funny thing: Killian was a heavy sleeper and not a great secret keeper. He’d _known_ the police were looking into him and he’d taken notes and done his _own_ little investigation – complete with a _Castle_ -style murder (smuggler?) board – which easily gave Emma all the evidence she needed to prove that Killian really was nothing but a once-lovesick-puppy of a librarian who slept with the wrong man’s wife – and was now paying for it dearly.

 

-

 

Killian Jones woke up the morning after the most delightful evening of his life sorely alone and feeling dejected. That woman was a force of fucking nature, a goddamn angel – something unearthly or maybe all- _too_ -Earthly. He tried to make some eloquent exaggeration about her being the reason he was on this planet, but he was never one for hyperbole ( _lie_ ) and honestly he was a little too fucked out to form coherent speech.

He thought seriously about drinking away his lonely sorrows, but settled on eating an inordinate amount of calories worth of French Toast, when he spotted a note on his shiny silver fridge.

_Didn’t mean to run away this morning, but I’m busy clearing your name of some serious drug charges. Meet me for lunch at 12:30 at Granny’s and I’ll explain? <3 Detective Emma Swan _

_p.s. sorry for snooping_

_p.p.s NOT sorry for snooping – you were so going to go to prison without me. Just kidding._

_(Well kind of.)_

_I had a really great night and I can’t think straight. Sorry for the babble! See you for lunch._

 

_Aye_ , he thought. _Angel it is._


End file.
